


Fire at will

by miss_Carrot



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Loss of Faith, M/M, Post-Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_Carrot/pseuds/miss_Carrot
Summary: That was when Baze recognised the Guardian, and it made him gasp for breath and freeze – a hit stronger than anything he experienced since his return on Jedha. Because of course, of-kriffing-course it had to be Chirrut Îmwe. Out of all the people whom he could meet again on this Force-forsaken moon, he had to been dragged into a fight alongside Chirrut Îmwe.The Force is just, but it isn’t kind, his masters used to say. No shit, he thought, forcing himself to breathe as he did when he was a young novice in training. No fucking shit.There were good reasons why Baze Malbus left Jedha and swore to never come back. He should have stayed true to that vow, he should.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, my headcanons are different from everyone else's headcanons. But it's a good, healthy thing, right? Right. I hope you'll still enjoy the story.

He was a picture of calm during the descent and the landing procedures, even though he felt as if there were thousands of manku worms crawling right under his skin. He should have foreseen this and refuse the job – nerves like these hampered your instincts and got you killed sooner than anything else – but here he was, showing his fake ID card to the clerk in the spaceport and doing his best to ignore the troopers.

“Anything to declare?” asked the clerk, giving him a perfunctory once-over and taking in the pleated hair, shined boots, and a patched suitcase.

“Just the jars of sand for the festival, sir,” replied Baze Malbus in the anxious tone of someone who really wants to be cleared out from the queue and meet his family. The Jedhan accent which he worked so hard to get rid of sounded so unnatural in his mouth that everyone in the line must have heard it. “But they’re clear.”

The clerk nodded but still waved a hand at the troopers, motioning them to put the suitcase in the scanner. Baze tensed for a second, but the scanner was set for the organic matter, and his disassembled cannon went through just fine. Fools, he thought to himself, taking his suitcase and leaving the arrivals area as hastily as he could without raising suspicion. But then, if they scanned specifically for organics, it could mean that there was more to the job he accepted that it initially seemed.

But of- _kriffing_ -course, he thought as he stepped out into the sun and let the entirety of Jedha City – the face-numbing wind, the smell of the red sand, the noise of the endless crowds – punch him in the gut and make him breathless for a while.

He didn’t want to come back, and he wouldn’t if there was a tiniest chance of getting another decent job soon. But between the back wound which rendered him useless for over three months, the recovery after that which ate up all his savings, and the fact that Ringavar Toos – his most trusted contact and source of employment – disappeared into thin air, the chances were scarce. So here he was, carried by the flow of the crowd as if he was just another pilgrim to celebrate the New Dawn Festival, and not on a job to kill a man.

Or a female Magrozz. Technicalities.

The nerves and the crawling under his skin aside, he could see why he was the right man on the job. He blended effortlessly, as if thanks to muscle memory, as if he’d never left.

It took an awful lot from him not to turn back and board the nearest departing ship at that very thought.

*

That one time when he was caught by Imperials and waited for interrogation, a fellow prisoner – a Rianyxian with dry, cracking scales and clawed, nervous fingers – told him that if the gods wanted to punish someone, they cursed them with good memory. _I went through this once_ , the Rianyxian whispered, constantly tapping claws on their thigh, _and I remember everything they did to me, every single thing_. _It’s always here, in my head. It’s never gone._

The prison transport got busted before they came for him, but the Rianyxian disappeared and Baze never saw them afterwards. Yet the memory stayed, and sometimes Baze would curse his good memory and all the distress it caused him. Just like it was doing right now.

At the first glance, nothing changed. It was the same dull chatter punctuated by yells of merchants, the same faded ads of noodle shops and speeder workshops and game parlours flapping in the wind. The same streets, narrow and spiralling in a way that would get you wander around for hours before leading you back right to your starting point. But back when he lived here, people didn’t keep looking behind their shoulders and scatter at the first glance of the white armour, there were no wanted posters with red Imperial seals on each available surface, and there weren’t so many beggars of all ages and races crouched in the streets. Baze remembered Jedha free of fear and the clarity of this memory made his gut twist and his anger rise and thrum in his ears. And he didn’t yet reach the gates of the Temple.

He would have to go there, and soon, if he was to learn anything substantial about his target – even in the good old times the Temple attracted all sorts, including spice addicts of every variation. There was no better place to ask about the Magrozz who, according to his job briefing, challenged the drug monopoly the Good Family held in this sector of Mid Rim. Baze didn’t like working for the syndicates like the Good Family – they seemed to have a considerable problem with understanding the term _freelance_ assassin, and he didn’t want to get dragged in any interstellar gang wars ever again. But then, if he could choose, he’d be somewhere at the very opposite end of galaxy right now.

Wandering around the streets and listening to scraps of conversations took the better part of the day. He learned that the water supplies were just as scarce as when he’d left, that the number of pilgrims for the New Dawn Festival was smaller than expected, that there was an enlightened healer at the eastern gate who could cure anything, from rash to a severed limp, and that the best noodles in the entire Holy City were served at Naka Pol-Salo’s joint, just by the Temple’s outer wall.

Well, Baze thought to himself, discreetly adjusting the blasters he strapped under his cloak with the yellow ribbons of a New Dawn pilgrim, the noodles were as good excuse as any.

*

He should have expected this, really, if the endless crawling under his skin was anything to judge by, but he let himself be surprised. Sometimes he marvelled at the sheer amount of dumb luck he had – not that he would say it aloud, ever, he had a reputation to live up to. But still, he should have recognised the tension of the upcoming battle before it was too late, even if he didn’t know that there were any resistance forces in Jedha. Maybe the Holy City didn’t change that much, after all.

Either way, he walked into the setup just like any idiot, asking oh-so-innocent questions about healers and good contact to buy some spice, and suddenly he found himself surrounded by a group of armed creatures in a suddenly empty part of the Temple road.

“Now look at him, boss,” one of them, a human, said, waving her blaster in Baze’s general direction. “Imperial sniffing dog if I ever saw one.”

Baze didn’t grace that with an answer – whoever these folk were, they didn’t look like they were going to listen to his arguments. He counted the blasters instead: if he could get to the Gamorrean and hit him with the vibroblade hidden under his belt, use him as a shield, and grab his blaster…

“And he doesn’t even try to defend himself,” the boss, a Twi’lek, agreed. “Let’s see if Bor Gullet makes him more talkative.”

“Now I wouldn’t recommend that approach,” said a new voice, but Baze couldn’t see its owner. “I would let this person go and disappear in the crowd, and quickly.”

There was a muttering of _what-the-hells_ and _oh-fucks_ , and someone yelled something about the mad monk, but then Baze heard the characteristic clacking of armour and rhythmic thumping of footsteps.

“What is this gathering,” demanded a filtered, slightly metallic voice of a stormtrooper. And then, “You’re under arrest for illegal possession of weapons. Do not resist.”

Whoever his captors were, they resisted like hell and Baze felt a tiny twinge of sympathy for them as the stormtroopers opened fire. He got to the Gamorrean as planned, but he didn’t need to use his vibroblade anymore; he pried the blaster from his dead hands and placed a few shots right into the bucketheads. After a moment he threw it away, a heavy and slowly loading piece of trash, and reached for his own. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, urging him up.

“Another troop is underway, we need to go,” said the same mysterious voice, but Baze didn’t look up from the sight of his gun as he sent another stormtrooper to the ground. “Now!”

“Screw you,” Baze shot back, and ignored the indistinct muttering that came in reply. But then he heard the thumping and saw a new wave of white helmets, bigger than before. “Screw you,” he repeated, this time to the troopers, and crawled a little to the right for a better sniping position. There must be at least two of his captors still alive – he could see shots coming from behind a doorway and a group of storage bins – but there were about twenty bucketheads incoming and his chances of getting out of it alive were melting with each second. It made him swear even louder.

And then he heard a familiar click and snap of an opened lightbow, and felt the heat of a shot mere inches from his head. It didn’t hit any of the troopers, but it crashed a small transmitter tower protruding from the Temple wall, and sent it down on the group. It must have been dead for years now, but Baze still felt a surge of anger at the disrespect.

“Move.” There was another tug at his arm and this time Baze didn’t resist. He let himself be dragged along the wall, turning just to shoot a few more times for a good measure, and then he squeezed himself in the secret entrance to the corridor running within the wall.

It has been considerably easier when he was younger and smaller in the shoulders, and kept his hair shorn close to his head so that it didn’t tangle with the protruding stones. But still the familiarity of the walk within the wall made his insides curl. He shouldn’t have come back here, ever. He stopped, leaning on the inner wall to catch his breath; it was exactly as cold and uncomfortable as he remembered.

“You’re welcome,” said the Guardian who helped him. He had to be a Guardian – even if the lightbow wouldn’t be a proof enough, he clearly knew about the hidden passages through the wall – but Baze couldn’t recognise the voice. It shouldn’t bother him, he left almost then years ago, but it still left him discomfited.

“I didn’t need your help,” he declared, making his voice gruff and scrubbing it from Jedhan accent on purpose. He didn’t want to be recognised either.

“Oh sure, you had it under control,” the Guardian said, and there was a shuffling sound in the darkness, most probably a shrug. “Sorry, should have guessed that you’re the type that comes and fucks around with anyone in sight who is even remotely dangerous.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Baze grumbled before he could stop himself. It was a reflex, rooted deep down in the days when he was young and devoted and stupid beyond any reason, and could not bear any slight on the sacrum of the Temple, even in form of vulgar words. They didn’t befit a Guardian of the Whills, even now, when then was barely anything to guard and when his own mouth became fouler than he ever imagined possible. The Guardian wasn’t as sensitive though, judging from another shuffling sound.

“Might be what killed her at such a young age,” he said, and then nudged Baze in the arm with the tip of his lightbow. “But I could kiss you, if you’ve got guts enough.”

That was when Baze recognised the Guardian, and it made him gasp for breath and freeze – a hit stronger than anything he experienced since his return on Jedha. Because of course, of- _kriffing_ -course it had to be Chirrut Îmwe. Out of all the people whom he could meet again on this Force-forsaken moon, he had to been dragged into a fight alongside Chirrut Îmwe.

 _The Force is just, but it isn’t kind_ , his masters used to say. No shit, he thought, forcing himself to breathe as he did when he was a young novice in training. No fucking shit.

And then Chirrut snorted a laugh and Baze knew that he was bowing his head and turning it away, so that he can listen better to the reaction. The sound echoed through the walls.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I am going to assault your virtue,” he said finally, and grabbed Baze’s forearm just where he’d tied his pilgrim ribbons. “I am a man of the cloth, after all. I’ll show you the way out.” He pulled and Baze followed, not trusting himself enough to answer.

He recognised the pattern of pathways throughout the inner corridor – they just went by the entrance at the eastern gate, and the entrance to the middle garden located between the two Temple walls and accessible for all pilgrims. But they were headed to the entrance far north, located by the ancient sacred stones, supposedly placed here by the Jedi knights of old with the power of the Force only.

“Not many people come here nowadays,” Chirrut said, pushing the lever and sliding the door ajar. “And not many troopers either. Just simple pilgrims like you. You might be able to blend in just right.”

“Yeah,” Baze said, choosing to ignore the mocking tone, and then, “thanks.” He tried not to look at Chirrut, suddenly visible in the stripe of light, but failed. He became tougher and more wiry, with new lines around his mouth and eyes. Not much different than Baze himself. For a briefest moment he wondered if, maybe, he was given a chance, though to do what, he wasn’t sure. He waited.

“May the Force be with you.”

As if a switch had been turned in his head, he suddenly could think and move and walk. So he turned on his heel and walked out, ignoring the quiet hiss of door locking behind him.

In front of him, at the place where the sacred stones used to cast shadow on the whole area, was a deep red crater left by aerial attack. There were shards of one of the shattered stones laying on the bottom of the crater. There were rusted durasteel tablets with names of the deceased laying there, too.

“Fuck the Force,” Baze said aloud and hoped that Chirrut stayed by the entrance and heard him well.


	2. Chapter 2

He was subtler in his intelligence-gathering attempts afterwards, partially due to the fact that the manku worms under his skin ceased to crawl at last. The worst thing that could happen after his return to Jedha already happened so he didn’t need to be anxious about it anymore. It helped as well that he knew what to expect now and Gerrera’s Partisans weren’t going to catch him unaware again.

The last thing he needed was Chirrut Îmwe saving him again.

It took him two days of sipping watery beer, trading old chipped holodiscs, and just hanging around the flock of pilgrims with jars of sand to learn something about his target. The Magrozz – going by Our Lady Rii-mah, or Lady of Mercy, which made Baze snort discreetly into his drink – was as elusive as she was famous. The accounts of her business and what she actually provided were conflicting, but one thing was sure: she indeed broke the drug monopoly held by the Good Family. Baze caught himself pondering on this when he should have worked on a plan of action. He was never a fan of spice or any other drugs, but then, after four days on Jedhan soil, he could see the reason why folks could get desperate for these. A few hours of oblivion provided by this or that mixture of glitterstim could count as a mercy all right, if you looked at it from a right angle.

Baze avoided the Temple after his encounter with the Partisans and the troopers, but he knew it couldn’t last – if he wanted to make contacts with someone who could lead him to the Lady of Mercy, he should start at the place where the spice was most frequently bought and sold. He went there in a dark cloak with steel-grey lining, different from the one with pilgrim ribbons tied to it, and with his hair combed away from his face, to give him a look of someone keen on making business. Simple as it was, the trick worked and Baze could see he caught attention of a few dealers. He was just about to approach one of them when he heard a familiar voice.

“You’re lost,” said Chirrut with a preacher’s cadence, and despite the loud hum of the crowd his voice carried easily in the air. “And you are afraid. Yet there’s nothing to fear, for all is as the Force wills it, my young friend.”

Baze forced himself to look away and he spotted a young Duros approaching Chirrut slowly. Yet, it was hard to shake off the feeling that the speech was directed to him. He watched the Duros kneel down and exchange a handful of credits for a story or a guidance – he couldn’t tear his eyes away even though the anger pounding in his ears made it impossible to hear anything Chirrut said. He was the Guardian of the Whills, for stars’ sake, he should not be reduced to a beggar trading the sacred stories for a few coins.

“Got caught by the ancient magic of the Force, did you?”

Baze got back to his senses just in time, so that he wasn’t startled by a sudden slap in the back. One of the dealers who eyed him before finally approached him with an understanding grin on his wind-withered face.

“They’re just stories,” Baze replied, speaking quickly and drawing out his vowels a little, as a merchant from the better parts of Jedha City would. “They’re giving me some comfort, but it’s not what I need to lift my spirits.”

“And what can help you, my friend?”

“A harmonious agreement,” Baze said, hoping that the pleasantries wouldn’t last long. They were out in the street trading drugs, not haggling over Jedha’s sandwood sculptures. Luckily, the dealer seemed to think the same and he quickly found himself guilty of possession of a dash of moderate quality spice, which he intended to re-sell as soon as he got off-world. It wasn’t a successful hunt though; he learned the dealer’s alias and contact details, and recognized him as a part of the Good Family’s network. He walked around to the northern side of the Temple and stalked some people there, knowing better than to feel discouraged after the first try.

He should have waited for another job, he mused as he walked along the remnants of the northern wall, near the crater. Return to Jedha aside – as if he could put that aside, ever – it required a lot of scouting, making contacts, and finding a way to his target through weeks, or sometimes months of preparation. It paid better than a regular contract where he was just required to shoot well-recognized target from a distance, sure, but still it made him uneasy. Chirrut would say something about the Force guiding him, for sure.

Baze swore under his breath, kicking a stone and watching it tumble down towards the bottom of the crater. He didn’t need to think about what Chirrut would say about him now; he didn’t need to know that he was still alive, clinging to the remains of the once-Holy City. He didn’t want to wonder whether any of the other Guardians, any of the masters, novices or acolytes made it out alive, and why weren’t they helping one of their own. He didn’t deserve the hollowness that he worked so hard to subdue to overwhelm him again.

Fuck the Force and all its ways.

With a sigh he close his eyes and made himself focus on his purpose here. His masters would be appalled at how he applied their teachings – or maybe they would be proud in a morbid way – as he all but forced his mind to concentrate on the now, to get back to task at hand, to open himself to the connections around his target and close to everything else. It used to freak him out, at the very beginning of his freelance career, how little did he need to change from a devoted Guardian to an excellent killer. Now it just made him sure of himself and of his skills.

He could do this. He would complete his job, leave this damned moon and never, ever think about it again.

*

After all these years away Baze almost forgot what the sandstorms of Jedha were like. His problem with sand was not that it was coarse or rough, or irritating, but that it got everywhere – especially when you were a damn fool who didn’t take cover but gathered intel on the streets until the very last moment. Useless intel at that, as it turned out, which left him even more angry as he struggled against the wind in the general direction of his rented room. Rationally Baze knew that it wasn’t that bad yet, and that he could make it, but the clouds of red clotting his throat and blocking his vision did make him much more uneasy that he’d admit to anyone.

Emergency sirens wailed from the distance, and despite the wind Baze heard the low thrumming of an Imperial crawler. In an instant it diverted his attention from the shelter and the intel; after all these years the sight of Imperials defiling the grounds of the Holy City still woke a white-hot fury inside him, it seemed.

“Take shelter,” droned the mechanical voice, “class-B sandstorm approaching. Clear the streets, do not hinder the emergency transportation. Repeat: take shelter…”

As the silhouette of the nearing crawler became visible through the gusts of sand, for a second Baze considered not letting it through, but attacking it instead. It was an emergency transportation, probably not armoured as much as sealed against the sand – his rigged blaster should make it through the vantaglass, and then it would take just a few shots to kill off the bucketheads. Nobody would expect this – no sane person attacked an Imperial crawler on their own, especially in the middle of sandstorm. Baze felt his fingers clench on his blaster’s grip as the crawler’s dark shape loomed over him, loud and huge.

And then he startled and loosened his grip, just a second before someone grabbed his arm and pulled.

“Run, you fool!”

And before Baze knew what happened, he was curled against a nook in the wall, couching up clots of spite and red sand. In front of him rumbled an enormous structure of steel, bigger than any other earthbound carrier he ever saw. He wouldn’t be able to do anything to it with his rigged blaster; heck, he probably wouldn’t scratch the thing with a repeated cannon either. It would have made mincemeat of him, and it wouldn’t even slow down for that, if he’d had a little less luck today.

“You are quite suicidal for a New Dawn pilgrim,” Chirrut yelled somewhere over him, at his left. It came out muffled by the layers of cloth and the swirling sand.

Luck, huh.

“Yes, yes, I know, you had this under control.” The rumbling sound of the crawler subdued, and Chirrut patted at his shoulder, motioning at him to get up. “Now let’s move before the storm gets worse.”

“I know my way back,” Baze grumbled as he rose, coughing up the rest of the sand. His voice was somehow tighter than it should be, even given the charming weather.

“Back under the treads of that crawler?”

If Baze didn’t argue, it was due to the biting wind and the new wave of sand, nothing else. He knew, rationally, that he should turn back and return to his own path, and not follow Chirrut to whatever hideout he had in mind. But somehow his legs carried him without any conscious decision. It was lapsing in an old habit – the two of them, inseparable against all odds, always following one another – and he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was good and safe. It’s just for a moment, he rationalized, just to wait off the storm. It won’t bind me back to Jedha, it _won’t_.

“It’s not far from here, and we’ll be safe from the Imperials,” Chirrut shouted as he hid behind a squeaking rusted stall just a moment before a blast of wind almost swept them both of their feet. Baze didn’t even question himself as he followed Chirrut on instinct. “Unless you make effort to find them, that is.”

“It’s not like we met in a scuffle with them twice, is it,” Base yelled back before he thought to stop himself. He was falling into the old habits through and through, apparently, but it didn’t actually surprise him. With Chirrut it was impossible to do anything by halves.

It was unnerving how Chirrut didn’t change, not really. He’d aged – though it was a ridiculous thing to say about a man forty years old – and he was more haggard, just as the city itself. But apart from that, the rise of the Empire and the decline of Jedha seemed to take no toll on him. There was still this half-smile playing on his lips, and the gentle mocking in each word but the ones said in prayer. His movements were still measured, precise, as if navigating throughout the streets had been effortless. His utter conviction and faith in the Force, unswerving even in the face of the Empire’s power, still shone through everything he said and did.

Baze barely resisted the sudden urge to punch him in the face.

“A scuffle! Bah.” Chirrut let out a laugh and then listened closely, head bent towards his arm. He was covered head to toe in a fine red dust, and for a moment he looked like a statue of an ancient Guardian from the Temple. Then he started to walk along the stall, motioning at Baze to follow. “I took part in worse when I was but a wee novice in the Temple.”

“You would,” Baze agreed, because he knew it to be true.

They apparently moved towards a group of shacks clustered at the wall of the Temple. Baze should have guessed that Chirrut never really left the place, but it still tugged unpleasantly at his insides. It’s only for the storm, he repeated in his head, it’s only for a while, I can leave again. He wouldn’t force me to stay, he wouldn’t want that, Baze thought, looking up at the crouched figure in front of him and regretting it instantly. A sudden blast of wind and sand almost choked him, and his eyes filled with red burning mist which he could not blink away.

“Wait,” he managed between fits of coughing. “My eyes…”

“I fail to see the problem,” Chirrut said – of course he did, because sight puns never got old. Baze coughed again, and then felt Chirrut’s hand testing its way against his back. After a series of thumps he was able to cough up the sand from his throat and take a ragged breath. “Luckily for you, my friend, the Force delivers.”

“Fuck the Force,” Baze growled back on instinct, because he wouldn’t hear anything about the Force – not right now, not on the defiled streets of the Holy City, and definitely not from Chirrut.

He moved to resume walking as the wind slowed down a little, but a grip on his shoulder stopped him. Chirrut was frowning as he reached out to Baze’s face, withdrew, and grabbed his hand instead. There was a scar at the back of his wrist and forearm, a wide ugly patch shaped a little like a mynock – Chirrut would knew, he was the one who put it there. Baze let him tug away his sleeve and feel for the scar, frozen and scrambling for words. I shouldn’t have come here, was all he could come up with, I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen.

“So it is you, then,” Chirrut said in a small voice, barely audible over the rumble of the wind. Baze knew the tone and loathed to hear it. But before he could say anything, Chirrut took a swing.

Pain flashed in his face, and then everything went quiet and black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so firstly - thank you folks SO MUCH for the wonderful feedback to this story. Truly, I didn't expect that, and the fact that you like what you read makes me happy beyond words. Thank you so much!! ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> Secondly, the RL stuff I mentioned is getting more and more intense. Unfortunately, longer breaks between updates are to be expected, but fear not, the writing goes well when I actually have a spare moment.
> 
> Also: there is a brief mention of drug use in this chapter. Nothing serious happens, but I'd like to warn you all nevertheless.

Consciousness came back to him in waves; his eyes and throat were dry as if brushed with abrasive paper, and he felt throbbing pain in his forehead and left temple. Out of habit Baze pretended to be still out, struggling to keep his breathing even, but then he remembered why he was unconscious. and opened his eyes. It didn’t make much difference though, as he was surrounded by complete darkness.

Well, obviously.

“You’re awake,” Chirrut said, and Baze hated how it made him twitch. He listened closely as the sound of metal tapping metal stopped – then something quite heavy was placed on a wooden table – then chair scraping on the floor and quiet footsteps, barely audible over the wind beating on the shackle’s walls. After a moment of wandering around, the footsteps reached him. Baze forced himself to keep his breathing even; he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. “Here,” Chirrut paused and sighed, as if he was completely drained of energy. “Can you sit up?”

Biting his lips, as if it could have stopped his head from breaking into two and spinning at the same time, Baze sat up. Immediately there was a hand on his shoulder, his arm was lifted and something made out of cool metal and old cracked leather was pressed into his hand. A water canteen. He took a sip and held it in his mouth a long while. Then another. It soothed his throat just a little.

“Do you have a light?” Chirrut asked, with the same weariness in his voice.

“No need,” Baze muttered, dampening his fingers and rubbing his eyes cautiously. He preferred the darkness at the moment, for various reasons. “I have a glow stick somewhere, but – it’s fine.”

It was all but fine. It was worse than anything Baze could ever have imagined, and he thought of meeting Chirrut again more times that he would care to count, especially in the first months after he left. He had all these scenarios – the good ones and the bad ones – but none of them was as unpleasant, as taut as the events actually playing out. Baze could almost hear the sound of the growing tension, as he reached out to give the canteen back. Their hands didn’t touch.

“Well, my friend, you can rest now,” Chirrut said out of sudden and it made Baze flinch again. Not the surprise this time, though, but the impersonal tone. As if Baze had been just some stranger on the street, hoping to have his fortune told. “The storm is going to last till mid-morning at least. You may as well catch up on your sleep.”

“I didn’t mean – it wasn’t supposed to go like this,” he said hurriedly, before the footsteps moved too far away.

“No, I guess not.”

“I didn’t want to come back here,” Baze barrelled on, if only because of the indifference in Chirrut’s tone – a fake one, surely, it had to be fake. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your inner peace. It’s just a stroke of bad luck and…”

“Baze.” There was a sigh, again, and it made Baze’s gut clench. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You left, and I have made my peace with that…”

“No, listen…”

“…for all is as the Force wills it.”

“You punched me!” Baze yelled, and touched the side of his head. It hurt like hell; he could feel the bruise forming. “You realised it was me and you hit me squarely in the face. Made peace, my ass.”

Chirrut paused, and Baze’s muscles tensed in anticipation. The tension started to morph into something familiar; they could start yelling at each other now, or Chirrut might throw another punch. Baze would block and return it, this time.

“Get some rest,” Chirrut said instead. “I have work to do.”

The chair scraped the floor and the tapping sound of metal resumed as well. Baze let out a breath and slowly reclined back on the pallet. His head was spinning, from the pain as much as from the confusion. Whatever he could have imagined, he didn’t expect this sort of resignation. Chirrut was the one person who never gave up, never let go, who made it through thanks to sheer determination. It seemed impossible for him to grow so – detached. It felt like a personal affront, and worse; it made his skin crawl again as if it was infested by worms.

Baze had no idea how much time passed, or if he felt asleep. It was hard to judge in complete darkness and constant howling of the wind, but pain in his temple might have knocked him out. There was a sound of scrubbing now, and moments of static, audible over the wind. If he squinted, he could make the outline of Chirrut crouching over the working table, but maybe he only thought he could.

“Water is on your left, at the shoulder level,” Chirrut said, but apart from that didn’t move. Very slowly Baze got up and took a few small sips. His head was definitely better.

“Thank you,” he said, and he heard Chirrut pause whatever he was doing. “I mean – you saved me twice in the last few days. You didn’t…” he trailed off, unsure what to say. _You didn’t have to_ didn’t sound like a good choice, even though it was true, especially given Chirrut’s apparent resentment towards him. “Thank you,” he repeated with an irritated huff, angry at his own fumbling with words.

“I go wherever the Force leads me,” Chirrut replied, and Baze willed himself not to make any dissatisfied noise. Suddenly the static noise burst out; Chirrut hissed and started to knock two metal objects against each other until the noise subdued. “I would like you to leave,” he said after a while.

“What? Now?!”

There was a sigh and a rustle of fabric – a shrug, probably, or a headshake. Or maybe Chirrut just made a vulgar gesture in his general direction. The possibilities were endless, and Baze found that he was quite content, not knowing.

“As soon as the storm dies out. The detained ships will be eager to get off-world, I’m sure you will find someone willing to take another passenger.”

“I am here on a job,” Baze said, but didn’t volunteer any details. It sounded like he was explaining himself, nevertheless, and he hated that feeling. “I–”

“I know, I know,” Chirrut interrupted and this time he stood up and came near the sleeping pallet. He crouched so he was more or less on Baze’s level when he spoke. “But you are going to quit it and leave anyway. Do you understand? No?” He sighed again. “Then let me spell it out for you. You, my friend, are the last thing Jedha needs right now,” he said seriously, and Baze recoiled, as if he’d been hit. Chirrut didn’t pause though, but barrelled on, undeterred. “More Imperial forces were transferred here, near the Temple, and Gerrera’s Partisans clash with them almost every day. Tens of people die every day in the crossfire. New resistance groups are forming to stop this madness, and they only make all the tension worse. No one has any control over the city anymore. We really, really don’t need a big boy with his big gun on a rampage to kill someone atop of all of this.”

“I – you don’t get to order me around,” Baze protested, because he couldn’t deny anything else that Chirrut said. It made his stomach twist. He shouldn’t have accepted this job, he should have known. “You don’t own the city.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late. He desperately wished that he could have said anything else instead.

“I don’t think you do either, to destroy as you please.” Chirrut stood up. “Now, the storm dies down – it should be safe to leave in two or three hours, and I need to fix this damned box before that.”

“I can help,” Baze offered in a rush, a poor attempt to make up for his words. Fixing things, he was good at this; he might have become an engineer in another life. “You helped me twice, and you’re letting me crash here, and I could at least…”

“No need.” The chair scraped the floor, and after a moment the metallic sound resumed. “You left, Baze, and I have made my peace with that. But don’t think, even for a while, that I’ll make my peace with you coming back like this.”

*

Even though Baze hated himself for it, he seriously considered Chirrut’s request to leave. The encounter left him hurting, as if someone rubbed Jedhan sand straight into an open wound. When the storm passed, Baze just left the shack without any further explanations. _Stay safe_ , he said, and Chirrut muttered out his blessing in reply, and that was all. Now he felt hollowed out, just like in these first months after the Jedi were murdered and the Temple ransacked, and it made him want to run until he would collapse, or scream till his lungs would give up. Anything to fill it the emptiness within him – anything, really.

“Hey, you all right there, brother?”

Baze heard the person approaching and meant to ignore them, but the question made him look up. It was a long time since he was called brother. A human woman was standing in front of him, her head wrapped a shawl against wind and dust, her coat adorned with New Dawn ribbons. He was wearing his pilgrim coat too, he remembered.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she insisted, reaching to her bag, and handed him a canteen. “Here. Listen, it isn’t good to stay here,” she said, as Baze shook his head at the canteen. “The stormtroopers patrol this area often and they won’t be kind to someone who looks like trouble.”

“Do I look like trouble?” Baze asked with a small, lopsided smile.

“You look like you’re in trouble,” the woman said, making a vague gesture at her face. Oh right, there must be a bruise, Baze thought, and my eyes must look like I rubbed spice right into them. “For the troopers it’s pretty much the same thing. Do you have a place to go to?”

“Zaoyi!” Another woman, taller and darker, called so loudly that her voice echoed against the Temple wall. “We’ll be late.”

“Yes,” replied Baze at the same time. “I do. Thank you, sister,” he added, bowing his head lightly, so she could not see his grimace. It’s been years since he had someone to call sister.

“Well, at least take this.” The woman – Zaoyi – pressed something small in his hands. It looked a little like a bacta wrap and a little like a dirty, red-brown bandage. It had a faint chemical smell which Baze couldn’t recognize. “Take it, seriously – you’ll need a clear head for tomorrow’s celebrations.”

The other woman came closer and gave Baze a quick, unimpressed once-over. He truly must have looked as if he’d been in trouble, because her frown turned into a more sympathetic expression.

“Just wrap it around your head and you will feel better in an instant, I promise. Nothing will help you as much as this,” she assured and grabbed Zaoyi’s shoulder. “I hope to see you tomorrow at dawn, brother.”

“Yes, thank you,” Baze said again, but Zaoyi shook her head.

“Just come and pray with us for Our Lady,” she said with a small, rueful smile, and then turned, following her friend. “May the Force be with you, brother.”

“Be safe, sister,” he replied quietly and then looked down at the package. It looked like a bandage dumped in sansanna spice – the same reddish brown colour – but, to Baze’s untrained nose, it smelled like something more chemically refined. He pocketed it and started to walk towards his room, shielding his irritated eyes from small gusts of wind. It looked like he just made the first actual connection with his target; it was a pity though that neither Zaoyi nor her friend looked like someone who could get him to Rii-mah. No, with their shiny, wide eyes they looked more like they were high even without using any of her stuff.

Which Baze could actually understand, up to some point. He remembered how it felt to take part in the New Dawn festival when it mattered – when the hymns and scattering of the blessed sand actually meant something – when you were a small part of something bigger and older and more important that any single person could comprehend. It wasn’t a good thought to dwell on, but it didn’t leave him nevertheless, even when he came back to his tiny rented room and threw himself on his bed. He would come to the festival tomorrow, of course, and bow his head in faked prayer, while searching the crowd for Zaoyi and her friend. He would do it, because he was a professional on a job, but the idea seemed repulsive all the same.

It was one thing to renounce his Guardianship and the ways of the Force – after all that had happened he would be a fool not to do so. But invading a ritual and making use of someone’s prayer, that was another thing altogether. It left him feeling foul the way anything else rarely did.

And of course there would be Chirrut, reciting his prayers with his face turned up, towards the rising sun he could not see. He would believe every word, too, the way Baze never did. He never had to. It used to be so easy for him, before: he felt the Force moving, living, acting through him. It felt present, almost tangible, as if he could see it just from the corner of his eye. It felt – it made him feel – powerful. Chirrut, the poor boy whose only talent warranting him a place at the Temple was his strange sensitivity to the Kyber crystals, didn’t have the luxury of certainty.

The sudden feeling of guilt was the last straw. Baze sat up and reached for the package from Zaoyi, tearing it open. The chemical smell hit his nose, making his eyes water, but it dissipated after a moment. It was a stupid decision, he knew – he really needed a clear head tomorrow, if he was to find out anything useful – but he’d made enough bad decisions during this job that this one surely wouldn’t be the worst. Carefully Baze wrapped the bandage around his head, covering the eyes, reclined back and waited for the calmness, the visions, or maybe chemical-induced bliss to kick in. But nothing happened.

Well, it was not exactly true. The bruise at his temple stopped swelling and throbbing with pain, and his eyes ceased to sting; the remains of the red dust gathered in his eye corners. He felt lighter somehow, probably due to the fact that his head didn’t hurt anymore. But apart from that, nothing: no rush of excitement, no sudden bursts of happiness, no heavy calmness making him sleepy. Baze’s experience with drugs might have been limited all right, but it was not what he could reasonably expect.

“What the hell”, he muttered, tugging at the wrap. The reddish brown substance dissolved due to his body heat, leaving his fingers and face covered in thin, oily film.

Maybe attending the festival tomorrow was not such a bad idea, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You folks. You are incredible. I still cannot believe that you are all so wonderful about this story - I am truly humbled by your response. Seriously, I re-read your comments during my lunch breaks in the office. Thank you for giving me this lovely fandom experience ♡
> 
> There is some canon-level violence in the chapter ahead.
> 
> Also, for those of you who celebrate it now, Happy New Year!

There were fewer people at the festival than Baze expected – and definitely fewer than he remembered from his time as a Guardian – which was both a good thing and a bad thing. He kept his head bowed over his jar of dust as he walked through the flock of pilgrims, searching for Zaoyi and her friend in the greyish light of daybreak, but he couldn’t see them. He could, however, see two troops of bucketheads, circling the pilgrims and blocking the entrance to the Temple. In the old days the Guardians would let people into the smaller crypt to admire the living crystals and accept the blessing. Clearly it was not the case anymore, but then there was no one to give out the blessing either.

Apart from that, the rituals went undisturbed – the sun rose, the sand was ritually purified and spilt on the wind – but Baze couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was amiss. Low chants sounded eerie in his ears, like they were meant to be something else. A threat, maybe, instead of a revered prayer. There were more people like him in the crowd, he realised, watching everyone from under their bowed heads and clutching blasters under their ribbon-adorned clothes. Something bad was going to happen here, and soon.

He started to elbow his way towards the blocked Temple gate as soon as the chant died down. The crowd was the thickest there, barely kept in line by the stormtroopers, still and white like an ice wall. For a brief moment Baze wondered if the troopers sensed the mood of the crowd too, and if they were excited for the incoming clash. He was almost there, just a few pilgrims between him and the gate, when the ritual ended with the sound of the ancient Temple gong, mercifully spared from destruction. There was a second of silence after the echo died down, and then there was a battle cry.

“Free Jedha!”

Baze automatically ducked, expecting the sound of blaster shots. There was a mortified silence instead, as he saw two thermal grenades fly over the crowd towards the stormtroopers and the Temple gate. He threw himself on the ground, dragging two other folks with him; still, he felt the scorching wave hit his back. There was also rubble of what used to be the Temple gate, carved with an ancient poem. Baze felt his gut clench with fury.

“Run,” he growled at the human and Duros pilgrims whom he helped, jumping on his feet and reaching for his blasters. Had he only brought his cannon, he would’ve wiped this vermin off of the holy grounds with no sweat, but he could manage anyway.

The pilgrims were swarming, trying to run away from the square. Their screams mixed with the battle cries of the Partisans and the buzzing sound of the blaster shots. No one waited for the dust to disperse; the orange smudges of Imperial blaster shots flew through air, hitting rebels and pilgrims alike. Apparently the grenades didn’t do their job as well as the Partisans planned. No wonder that the Empire was still up and running if the only resistance it encountered was amateurs like these.

Amongst the cries and flailing limbs Baze managed to shoot a stormtrooper who zapped a Twi’lek woman in front of him, and another one who hit an Aqualish child on the leg. Wincing from the pain of his burned back he looked back to check if the fallen child wasn’t trampled by the panicked crowd, but he couldn’t see them anymore. Instead he saw a Partisan with a blaster glued to her face, her eyes trained on the flashes of white within the smoky remnants of the Temple. He aimed, but a sudden impulse made him pause. He turned then and shot another stormtrooper running in his direction.

“Don’t harm the Partisans.” Chirrut’s voice carried well, even in the uproar. Baze wasn’t even surprised to find him here; he was surprised though to see the paled face and the grimace of pain.

“They destroyed the Temple!” Baze yelled and tugged Chirrut closer. A smudge of orange plasma flew right through where Chirrut’s head was a second ago. “Blew the main gate in the air!”

“And the troopers are killing the civilians!” Chirrut yelled back, froze for a moment, and then aimed his lightbow at the remains of the gate. He took a shot, and then started to run towards the stormtroopers.

Baze felt the familiar wave of vexation wash over him. Apparently even the end of the world didn’t change some people. And while it wasn’t true that Chirrut Îmwe didn’t pick his battles, he always did pick the fiercest of them. Anger was still running high in his veins, but Baze rushed towards the gate nevertheless.

“It’s the mad monk,” he heard someone shout somewhere behind his back. “Don’t shoot him!”

“You’d better not,” Baze muttered under his breath as he aimed at the flock of white helmets. The last thing he needed was a hit of friendly fire.

Well, for a given value of _friendly_.

He took down a few more stormtroopers, watching through the corner of his eye how Chirrut wrought havoc with his quarterstaff. The sudden rush of familiarity caught him unprepared and Baze almost got shot thanks to his surprise, but he managed to duck in the very last moment. His back protested, but he still got up and walked a few steps closer to Chirrut and the troopers, aiming at the most stubborn of them.

And then he heard a low rumble, approaching seemingly from all directions at once. He turned to take a look even though he recognized the sound: three Imperial crawlers – two huge and one smaller – approached the square, blocking all the ways out. If they start shooting, they’ll turn the Temple into dust, Baze thought, watching the steel giants with pasty-white Imperial insignia. Most of the faithful had already run away; there was little commotion on the square, as some folks were still trying to run or help their wounded companions. But mostly there were only Chirrut and him, the troopers, and the scattered Partisans left. And bodies – dead and dying – laying on the red holy ground, among the holy rubble.

Baze ground his teeth, looking at the Partisans, who now, as the crawlers approached, started to run closer to the troopers as well. That was when he saw her – the Magrozz, the Lady of Mercy, covered in a blood-splattered yellow veil, dragging an unmoving person away from the approaching crawlers. He could be wrong, of course, but it didn’t seem likely. There couldn’t be many Magrozzi in Jedha, not in this dry climate, and with her bluish sensory tentacles and shell-like pattern on her wide tail she fit the description perfectly. Baze could take her down from here, it was a clear shot – he should be able to collect his proof later too. Switching his blaster to sniping, he took aim.

And then something sharp and painful tugged at his gut. He coiled in place and saw Chirrut walking right into a crossfire.

“Chirrut, duck!”

Two shot missed, flying right over Chirrut’s head, but the third one hit him in the back. Baze didn’t waste time on retaliating; he run to Chirrut, assessed his state with a quick glance and threw him over his shoulder with a grunt of pain.

“We’re fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Can you walk like this?”

“Yes,” Chirrut breathed. He must have been in considerable pain; Baze could feel his muscles tremble.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to shoot one more trooper and hide himself and Chirrut behind a piece of a fallen pillar. The stone floor shook from the approaching crawlers. The sound made the hair on Baze’s neck and arms rise, and his movements still. If they were quick enough and agile enough, they probably could squeeze out of the square and hide within the Temple walls. Normally it would be possible, but with Chirrut out of commission…

“Give me that,” Baze demanded, prying the lightbow from Chirrut’s fingers. Without looking he changed the settings, the movements as familiar as walking. “Be ready to run on three.”

“Don’t…” Chirrut rasped, as he slowly clambered up. Baze felt a surge of irritation, but then Chirrut gave him a tight, lopsided smile. “Don’t scratch it.”

Baze snorted, feeling the fear dribble out of him a little. He leaned out and aimed at the bucketheads still swarming at the remains of the gate.

“One!” he yelled as he took his shot. The recoil was stronger than he remembered, but then, he rarely used the full blast potential of the lightbow. It was not a weapon designed with such brutal force in mind. With a grimace he turned to the closest crawler and looked in its dark vantaglass eye. Hopefully there was enough energy left to make this shot. “Two!” He didn’t wait for the dust to set, so he didn’t see if his shot was successful at all. Without much thought he folded the lightbow back and pushed it at Chirrut. “Three, come on!”

He must have done some considerable damage, because there were just a few random shots in their direction as they run towards the small alleyway leading out of the square. Baze dodged them without thinking, manoeuvring Chirrut out of the line of fire. One green smudge touched his shin and his knees wobbled at the sudden impact, but he was too focused on running to take a proper notice.

Of course, Chirrut’s assessment of his own condition was just as exaggerated as always; not only he couldn’t actually walk more than fifty steps, but then he started going limp and heavy on Baze’s shoulder. Baze cursed and pleaded in turn, but he wasn’t sure either was heard at all. That they made it out of the square and managed to squeeze themselves into the wall just behind the old hospital building could only be described as the biggest stroke of luck in this part of the galaxy. Baze just hoped that there was a little of it left, just enough to make it through the tunnel alive. He could take care of the rest.

*

The inside of Chirrut’s shack looked exactly like his room back in the Temple, Baze realised when he pulled away the rags blinding the window and keeping the wind and dust away. In the dimmed light the salvaged pieces of furniture looked nothing like the simple but sturdy furnishings of the Temple, but still, the layout was almost identical. It made sense, Baze guessed as he took a battered medkit from a box under the southern wall, exactly where he expected it to be. But it didn’t make him any less discomfited though. The familiarity of all this – not only the surroundings, but the whole mess altogether was both unnerving and treacherously soothing. It didn’t take much for him to go back on all his promises, apparently; just a few days on Jedha, a few meetings with Chirrut, and his hard-won independence was all but gone, drawn out by the force of habit.

He wasn’t going to remedy that right now, though. The wound which the blaster left on Chirrut’s back wasn’t big, but it looked like one of those nasty deep burns, scorching through muscle and nerves even hours after the hit. Setting a blaster like this was officially forbidden outside of the Imperial army, but it wasn’t a difficult tweak, and there were more sadistic freaks in the galaxy who wanted their victims alive for questioning afterwards. Baze had quite intimate knowledge of that.

There wasn’t much light going through the tiny dirty window, definitely not enough to read the tiny script on the various packs and tubes squeezed into the medkit. Most of them looked and smelled unfamiliar, clearly local products, but there were pieces of thick isolation tape glued carefully to each item. Triangles for painkillers – bigger and smaller, depending on the dosage. Long thin stripes for regenerative agents, both wound dressings and injections for larger wounds. There would be squares for poison antidotes and double stripes for anti-inflammatory drugs, Baze remembered, running his thumb against the tape. He would know, he used to label each item while re-stocking exactly this medkit for years.

Pushing away the question who did it now required much more effort that it should.

The regenerative injection looked like a mixture of thin oil and blood, and smelled like the wound wrap he received from Zaoyi yesterday. As much as he wasn’t happy about it, Baze didn’t ponder on that though, focusing on administering the injection – it needed to be done close to the burned tissue, but not into the wound itself, and the lack of light didn’t make it easier to be precise. His movements were as slow and gentle as possible, but Chirrut still let out an unconscious grunt of pain. Baze considered a painkiller injection, but dismissed the idea in favour of a standard-issue bacta patch. He cut a sliver of the patch and covered the wound with the rest. The sliver he pressed to his shin, which was actually bleeding – meaning that the troopers wanted to kill them after his lightbow feats, not just incapacitate. Within mere moments his leg stopped hurting, and he could feel the familiar tingle of bacta doing its job. If the injection worked the same way that the regular ones, it should be safe to wake Chirrut up in the next fifteen to twenty minutes.

Now, as the immediate danger receded, Baze wanted nothing more than to lean against the wall and doze off, even for those twenty minutes. Instead he catalogued Chirrut’s belongings, trying to assess how much he could carry in one go. There wasn’t much to start with – the life in the Temple wasn’t cut for collectors and hoarders, and the habit stayed with both of them – but it could make the choice even harder, in the end. He only hoped that Chirrut would be reasonable about this, just once in his life.

Twenty minutes wasn’t enough for any regenerative agent to complete its work on a blaster burn of this size, but Baze didn’t want to wait any longer. The troopers would come for them, he had no doubts of that, and it didn’t require much imagination to look for a Guardian of the Whills in the surroundings of the Temple. It was actually quite strange that they didn’t come here before.

“Chirrut,” Baze said, keeping his voice low. Normally Chirrut would startle and sit up, but there was no movement, this time. It didn’t bode well for the whole healing process; one wasn’t supposed to be so deeply unconscious after injecting a regenerative. “Chirrut, wake up. Wake _up_ ,” he repeated, suddenly nervous, and placed a hand on Chirrut’s arm.

Now that had an effect – Chirrut stirred and started to squirm in a flailing attempt to grab his hand. This lack of coordination was so foreign and terrifying on him that it made Baze freeze for a heartbeat.

“It’s me,” he said, recovering from his shock and letting go of Chirrut’s arm. “It’s me, we’re in your place, and we’re safe. But we need to go, the troopers may come any minute now.”

He watched as Chirrut fumbled to sit up, his mouth pressed thin, his face pale. He reached to his belt and poked at a comm unit attached to it; there was a quiet beep and the lights on it went dead. Chirrut took a few deep breaths, as he used to do in training to centre himself. The frown on his face receded a little.

“I’ll take you to my place,” Baze said, moving his weight forward. Bacta was a good thing, but squatting wasn’t the wisest choice at the moment. “Just for a while, until the searches die down. You will be safer in crowds at the moment,” he added, when no reply came. “Chirrut?”

“Yes,” Chirrut rasped, and it sounded unfocused, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he agreed to. “What… what happened?”

“You got shot.” Baze stood up and reached for the lightbow, which he threw over his shoulder, and the quarterstaff, which he placed against Chirrut’s leg. Chirrut immediately grabbed it and held tightly, like a lifeline. Baze wanted to rush him, but he didn’t dare. “You’re dizzy from shock. How do you feel?”

“Cold,” Chirrut replied after a while, as if it required a long internal debate to reach this conclusion. “Fine,” he added in an afterthought, and Baze didn’t even bother to shake his head. There was a cloak hanging by the door, so he draped it over Chirrut’s shoulders. It earned him a surprised flinch. He didn’t account for that, for Chirrut being both wounded and not fully conscious, but they would have to manage.

“I got your lightbow and your medkit. Is there anything else we need to take? Chirrut, focus. What do you need with you?”

The silence seemed to stretch forever, and Baze just barely stopped himself from grabbing Chirrut and just walking out.

“Cells,” Chirrut said suddenly, waving his hand at the wall. “Metal box, right shelf.”

As Baze snatched it and squeezed it into one of his pockets, Chirrut scrambled up, leaning heavily on his staff. He didn’t look like himself at all, so vulnerable and unsure of his surroundings. Baze felt his gut clench with sudden fear that he missed something vital, that the blaster would was actually graver that it seemed. He went over to help but stopped himself, hovering instead. They didn’t have time for this, he knew, but he wouldn’t force his help on Chirrut, and he couldn’t find the right words to offer it.

“I – I’ll need your help,” Chirrut said then, and it sounded like admitting it caused him more pain that the burn on his back. “I can’t…”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, averting his eyes even though Chirrut didn’t see it. “Let’s go before they get in here.”

It was decades since they walked like this: Chirrut scanning his way for obstacles with his staff, Baze muttering warnings in his ear. After a few stumbles and sudden stops their walk became smooth, even if it was way too slow to Baze’s liking. They didn’t talk – Chirrut was still too incoherent for it – but this time there was no hostility in the silence between them. For the briefest moment it felt like he went back to the past, when he could not imagine himself ever leaving Jedha or straying far from Chirrut’s side. It was a silly idea, nothing to dwell on, especially now. But with a sudden pang of fear Baze realised that he wouldn’t mind it becoming true again – he wouldn’t mind it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest sister helped me a lot with research regarding daily life of a visually impaired person, so huge thanks to her. However, visual impairment is not her specialty field, so please feel free to point out any shortcomings here. Also I really recommend reading [this wonderful post](http://kylostahp.tumblr.com/post/155886613302/yes-lets-discuss-chirruts-assistive-tech-im-a) which sums up my attitude towards Chirrut's blindness better than I could do it myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you all amazing folks. Did someone tell you today that you're wonderful? No? Well then, you are. You make me so, so happy and humbled and energized and - and everything at once, being as kind as you are. I am grateful for each and every sign that you're out there, truly. Thank you!!

When Baze woke up, for a while he couldn’t remember where he was. He was cold and stiff from lying on the floor rug, with his leg elevated in unnatural position. On his sleeping pallet sat Chirrut, unmoving except for slow rise and fall of his shoulders and prayer whispered under his breath. Baze closed his eyes. It felt like one of those nightmares where nothing bad actually happened, but the sense of wrongness and impending disaster would make his heart stutter. He had a lot of these, even before he left.

“May the Force of others be with you,” Chirrut said, and Baze sighed, clambering up to his feet.

“Well, the force of others certainly was with you yesterday,” he grumbled, walking over. His injured leg felt tender, but apart from that it was fine. “How are you?” he asked, stopping a step away from Chirrut, who still didn’t move. “The head’s better?”

“It is,” Chirrut said slowly, raising his face in Baze’s direction. “What did you do to me yesterday?”

It took a while for Baze to repeat the question a few times in his head. He couldn’t have heard that – Chirrut couldn’t have _said_ that. They might have not be close friends anymore, but Chirrut surely couldn’t suspect him of ill will, not like this. And yet.

“What did I – what the hell, Chirrut?! I dragged you out of the battle and…”

“No, I mean – with the wound.” Chirrut made a placating gesture. “There’s a bacta patch on it, isn’t there. But is there anything else? Painkillers?” He frowned and rolled his shoulders slowly. “Everything is still so woozy.”

“I gave you a regenerative shot. I’m not sure what it was. Red and oily,” Baze managed after a moment. Chirrut paused mid-movement, brows high up in disbelief, and then snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

“You mixed kolsana and bacta on an open wound? Baze Malbus, you know how to live precariously!”

“I – it was labelled as regenerative.” He should have known that the red liquid, clearly coming from the same shady source that Zaoyi’s wound wrap, was not to be trusted. And yet he never, not even for a second, doubted Chirrut’s labelling system.

“It’s a dangerous mixture, you know,” Chirrut said, shaking his head. His brows were furrowed, and his lips pressed into a worried pout, but Baze knew better. There was the quiet huff in Chirrut’s voice, the slight tug at the corners of his mouth – it all suggested that Chirrut was, to put it in precise terms, fucking with him. “Kolsana itself was not approved for official medical use in the Republic, because it puts a considerable strain on the neural system…”

“Chirrut…”

“And mixing it with bacta to speed things up is just asking for permanent brain damage!”

“Not much risk to start with, then,” Baze decided, and he didn’t even bother to hide a smile. It earned him an indignant huff. Letting himself stay in Chirrut’s orbit was wrong, he knew. It was probably the worst decision he made in years. But at the moment it seemed inevitable, so he might as well enjoy the peace of it while it lasted. “You up for something to eat?”

Baze didn’t want to go out just yet if he could avoid it – not when he could hear hordes of stormtroopers stomping on the streets and scaring the pedestrians. Yesterday he forced his landlord to allow Chirrut’s stay, using the right combination of growling, scowling, blasters and credits, so they could lie low here for as long as it took for the searches to die down. This meant however that they would eat through Baze’s food portions, stolen from an Imperial transport and saved for the darkest hour.

Never let it be said, Baze thought to himself, watching the dough grow into a tasteless blob, that I didn’t make great sacrifice in the name of – clear conscience.

“The city is crawling with the Imperials,” he said, handing Chirrut half of the blob. “They’re hunting the Partisans, so we’re staying here for now.”

“Right,” Chirrut muttered, tearing the blob into small pieces. “ _We’re_ staying.”

“I’m not forcing you,” Baze spat, jumping to his feet. The sneer in Chirrut’s voice made him seethe within a heartbeat. “Go to your Partisans and blow yourself up with the rest of the Temple, for all I care.”

“So you do remember that you took the Guardian’s oath. A pleasant surprise.”

“You did too.” It took all the self-control Baze could muster to stop himself from shaking Chirrut by his shoulders. “And now you’re running with the people who destroy the Temple as much as the Empire did, who – who go in there and – and defile the holy grounds…”

“The grounds,” Chirrut said slowly, and there was surprising sorrow in his tone, “the grounds were never holy, Baze.”

“Maybe for you,” he replied, and it was familiar again, this discord between them. They’d run this argument a million times before Baze left. Suddenly he felt the hollowness again, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to push it back out to the far corners of his mind. “Never mind that. You can leave if you want.”

“I never said I do.” Chirrut kept his head bowed, unseeing eyes fixed at the food pieces in his hands. Baze knew that he was thinking about their youth, about the times when their biggest concern was whether the Force manifested itself in places as much as it did in the living creatures. They fought about it with words, and sometimes with fists, and it always seemed that the argument was about something more than the Force itself, though neither of them ever said anything about it. It seemed so today too. “I’ll stay, if you’ll have me.”

“Very well,” Baze said, though it was anything but.

*

As far as the bad decisions went, this one would probably drive him mad. Chirrut’s presence, quiet as it was, was like a thorn in his side. After the clash yesterday morning Baze promised himself to avoid talking about anything triggering, but it didn’t leave many topics open. He tried staying silent and minding his own business, but there was only so much time one could spend on sorting through the equipment, recharging blasters, and thinking obsessively about the Magrozz fleeing from the Temple square. He wasn’t sure if she got out, if his presence here had any sense at all, and the uncertainty was making his skin itch. He didn’t want to be here any longer, not like this.

It was, hands down, the worst commission he had ever taken.

And the worst part wasn’t even the waiting. Even though he wanted nothing more than to lean out of the window and blast the marching stormtroopers out of Jedha’s surface, he could bring himself to stay still. No, the worst part was the constant presence of the Force, pressing itself at the corners of his mind now that he has nothing else to focus on. An irony of the universe, truly – when he thought about the countless hours he’d spent meditating and praying for such guidance while still in the Temple, he barely could contain a bitter laughter. Connecting with the Force, feeling all the beings link through it was meant to require a conscious, dedicated effort, but now it felt more like low droning noise, constantly in his head: the stormtroopers milling around and looking for the resistance groups; the Partisans full of rage and pain; Jedhans and pilgrims both scared and hopeful, but mostly just hurting. He could sense the kyber crystals somewhere underneath all these impressions, but it was nothing like the steady presence he remembered from his youth, like a sun-warmed clay floor. It felt more like a swamp, dangerous and rotting, and as out-of-place in the Holy City as it only could be.

He used to be too skilled at this for his own good.

More than once Baze caught himself sitting with his eyes closed and his hands folded in front of him, trying to close himself to the whispering of the Force, and the most pious of novices of the Order of the Whills would envy him his focus. It wasn’t so bad, usually – he had these small hunches telling him to run or hide, sure, and there were places making his sensitivity sharper, speaking to him through the Force. None of them quite as loudly as NiJedha, though. But then, none of them mattered.

“Baze,” said Chirrut suddenly from his place at the window. His voice was small, quieter than his prayer chants. The setting sun made his features sharper and his eyes eerily translucent. “Would you tell me what is happening out there?”

Chirrut’s expression was serene, eyes fixed on the wall, yet Baze couldn’t but ask himself if he could feel the heavy presence of the Force too. The question belonged to their past, to the times where Chirrut wouldn’t hesitate to ask, and Baze wouldn’t struggle with an answer, no matter what he saw out there. Getting up with his shoulders suddenly heavy and his heart beating high in his throat, he wondered if Chirrut’s request was meant to be an act of kindness or cruelty. Both, perhaps.

_There are children playing tag on the corner_ , he would have said if the seven empty years hadn’t passed between them, _there’s five of them and the littlest one can’t yet walk very well. But it’s a stumbling and failing little warrior, very brave, that one. An elderly Twi’lek is watching over them, perched at a threshold, basking in the low light of the setting sun. There is an old t’kau lizard sitting by her, its scales brittle with age. Two Rodian girls take laundry off the drying line, heads bowed close together, sharing secrets and smiles. There are yellow ribbons and flags flapping in many windows on the street, and slowly the lights appear too, one by one, marking the second day of the New Dawn celebrations. There is a man pushing a cart laden with folded fabrics, glowing in the sun with colours as radiant as the flowers in the Temple garden. The children scatter around him but he doesn’t mind them, clearly in a hurry. There is a place, a small alcove in one of the houses that they all avoid, unconsciously so. It’s marked with black soot of the blaster residue, and a yellow ribbon weighted down with a white stone._

“Baze.”

He shook his head and took a long, shuddery inhale. He cleared his throat, willing the words to come on. Words rarely failed him in the past – he could debate and argue for hours, quote old masters and recite heartfelt prayers, and he was always ready with a comeback or a friendly jab. No one would believe that now – even Baze didn’t believe it, sometimes.

_There is so much fear_ , he would say in a hushed voice, _banked low but always there, under the weight of the everyday concerns. It startles awake at the very glimpse of white, at the metallic clacking of blaster, it spreads wildly into terror, then anger, burning brightly until there is nothing left. There is a Star Destroyer hanging far away in the sky, a thin silver line delicate like a new moon. People look up and shudder, unable to do anything but wait to be stained by its shadow._

Suddenly there were hands gripping his forearms, shaking him, forcing him to seat; Chirrut was repeating his name in quick, concerned whisper. Baze shook his head again, unable to reply. Of course Chirrut had to see him collapse like this, with hands trembling and heart stuttering like a decommissioned cannon. Of course he had to pull apart all the barriers Baze had placed so carefully in his own mind with one simple request.

_The Star Destroyer is hovering over the Temple_ , he would say, if he could utter a single word. _It can destroy the towers any moment now, burn the remnants of the libraries, shatter the kyber crystals beneath them. It can hang there forever, distant and familiar and no less terrifying. And there is nothing I can do, nothing. Nothing._

It was just as it was during the battle on Jedha, the attack on the Temple, the fights afterwards. The living Force flickering with all the pain of the lives lost and crushed, destroying so many and yet sparing him, puny guardian with his worthless prayers and laughable kyber staff. He felt it back then and he felt in now, dying thousand times over, falling into the hollowness where there was no light carried by the Force.

Last time he’d run from it like the coward he was, and this time he would do it too if he wasn’t held back in place.

“Baze,” Chirrut pleaded, “it’s all right. I’m with you, I’m with you, just listen to me. It’s all right.”

It wasn’t all right, but it was enough for him to stop struggling against Chirrut’s grip and for his breath to slow down. He closed his eyes, as if it could shield him from guilt and shame, twisting in his belly and flushing hot in his face. Suddenly Chirrut let go of his arm and touched his face instead, gently, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. His fingers brushed Baze’s forehead, then temple, and then rested on the thin wet skin just under the eye. Baze leaned into that touch and hated himself for it.

“Is _this_ the reason why you left?” Chirrut whispered, like he’d been in pain. Sitting this close and focused solely on Baze, he probably was. The Force always moved strangely between the two of them.

Baze nodded, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to keep his hands still. Whatever he battled with, Chirrut didn’t deserve any of it. He already witnessed more than Baze ever wanted him to.

“Will you tell me?”

“Can’t.” It came out hoarse, like someone else’s voice. “It’s – it’s mine to carry.”

It took more than he thought it would to reject this offer, but he had to. If the universe didn’t let Chirrut feel the serenity and joy of the living Force, Baze would not burden him with the hollowness clawing at his mind. The Force might not be kind, but it had to be just, at least.

He didn’t dare to open his eyes, but he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders in a weak attempt at regaining his composure. Chirrut took his fingers away from his face, but didn’t withdraw; he grabbed Baze’s wrist instead. Baze shifted in his seat, both willing and unwilling to put some distance between them. He was sure Chirrut could feel his pulse beating quicker, much quicker than it should.

“All these years I thought you left because of me,” Chirrut said quietly, and Baze looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Because I failed at – anything that mattered. Because I wanted to renounce my vows.”

_We have to leave_ , Baze remembered himself pleading, fighting to find the right words for the first time in his life. He remembered the hazy fog of death and pain and anger twisting all around him. He remembered Chirrut clinging to the Temple’s scorched walls, willing to fight against all reason, and his own helplessness weighting him down. _Do you really think there is anything left you can do, Chirrut? You said yourself, you’re unfit to be a Guardian anymore._

“I should have listened to the Force around you, and not your words,” Chirrut said, squeezing Baze’s wrist even tighter. “I let you leave, and I should have known that you are better than this. I should have seen it back then, but I do now,” he added after a moment, raising his face as if to meet Baze’s eyes.

“How could you, being the blind fool you are,” Baze replied as evenly as his tightened throat allowed. He recognized the opening for what it was – an apology, forgiveness, a peace offering even – and he would be a fool himself not to take it.

“I might be a fool,” Chirrut agreed. Suddenly he smirked and let go of Baze’s hand only to punch him lightly in his forearm. With the Force casting shadows over Baze’s mind it didn’t feel as if these seven years had never passed between them, but it was as close as it would get. “But even I shouldn’t be that blind.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, as always, thank you so much for your wonderful response to this fic. You folks never cease to make me happy.
> 
> Secondly, please enjoy this new chapter as my small contribution to the celebration of the International Fanworks Day. To all writers, artists, creators, community-builders, and all the fannish folks hanging out there - all the best to you, may the fandom always bring you only good vibes!

He sat straight up scrambling for his blaster even before he fully registered the sound that woke him. It was Chirrut, he realised a heartbeat later, repeating his mantra in an unusually loud voice. Or maybe it just seemed loud, amplified by the feeling of danger pressing on him.

“What’s happening?” he whispered, standing up. In the bleak, yellowish light of the streetlamp filtering through the window he saw Chirrut startle. He knelt down and nudged Chirrut’s leg with his own, to make his proximity known.

“The crystals,” Chirrut managed after a while, tight and raspy, as if he couldn’t breathe. There was sweat on his temple and his hands were balled into fists and trembling. “They’re – they’re taking them away.”

Suddenly the hordes of stormtroopers crawling over the remnants of the Temple made sense, as did the presence of Gerrera’s Partisans in Jedha City. Baze had no idea what the Empire needed the crystals for – they were religious artefacts, or in the worst-case scenario power cores of lightsabres of the Jedi, nothing else – but he didn’t care. Anger rose in him at the thought of the Imperial hands prying the kyber away from Jedha, where it belonged.

“I need to do something,” Chirrut said, calmer and more composed. He placed his hand on Baze’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. On his face there was a hint of a reassuring smile.

How he managed to comfort someone else at the moment was beyond Baze, but then, he would never let Baze hurt alone when they were still both guardians of the Temple. It was why Baze fell in love with the man, after all.

“Like what?” Baze asked, as Chirrut pushed himself up and reached for his outer robes.

“I don’t know yet.” The robes were fastened, then the belt; Chirrut felt for his comm unit and fastened it to one of the belt loops. “I just – feel that the crystals are taken away from the caves, but I don’t know what is going on there,” he said, throwing the lightbow over his shoulder. “Need to go out and take a look.”

“Do you now,” Baze muttered, stepping into his boots. He didn’t even pause to think it through and it was wrong, it’s very, very wrong – but Chirrut’s back didn’t yet heal properly. He needed someone to watch it. “And you plan to go all alone?”

“I’m never alone,” Chirrut said solemnly. “The Force is with me.”

“Well, then I’ll just go back to sleep.” Baze fastened his cloak – his real one, with duraplast thread padding, not the flimsy pilgrim cloak he wore previously – and after the briefest consideration took on his cannon, which he painstakingly assembled earlier.

“It wouldn’t do to stand between a man and the path the Force chose for him,” Chirrut declared, mimicking the serious tone of Grandmaster Kimau, but he was smiling. And more importantly, he was waiting for Baze by the door.

The night was cool and calm, just like he remembered the nights around New Dawn from before the fall of the Temple. But there was a Star Destroyer now, blocking the starlight. Baze wondered if it was the reason that the streets were so empty. Chirrut didn’t seem bothered by its looming presence though; he run lightly, almost soundlessly, drawing them closer and closer to the northern part of the Temple, to the entrance to kyber caves. Sure enough, there was a force-field blockade guarded by three squads of stormtroopers; behind it two Sigma-class heavy transporters were sitting on a makeshift landing pad that used to be a garden.

“What do you see out there?” Chirrut asked, bowing his head and frowning. “Is it an energy field?”

“Yeah, and forty bucketheads guarding it. Two heavy transports behind it,” Baze explained, trying to keep his voice low and even. He reached for his cannon and unblocked it; the battery on his back replied with a reassuring murmur. “And a Star Destroyer just above us,” he added, because it occurred to him that Chirrut might not know. “Any plans, or we just shoot at them till we get through?”

Chirrut turned to him, his frown deeper than before, and without a warning placed a hand on Baze’s chest, just above the heart. Baze didn’t feel much through his padded coat, but it made him freeze nevertheless.

“If I said that we shoot, you would go after me, wouldn’t you,” Chirrut said, and dropped his hand. There was something odd in his tone – not quite wonder, not quite disbelief – like he just worked something out.

“I would shoot at them, that’s for sure,” Baze deflected around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Then let’s shoot at them from the inside. If we destroy the landing pads, they’re grounded.”

It was just on the wrong side of dangerous, but technically doable, as it seemed that the Imperials didn’t discover the wall passages he and Chirrut used before. But if there were three squads of troopers guarding the landing pads from the outside, Baze didn’t want to think about how the place would be swarming with them on the inside.

“You sure you don’t want backup for this one?” he asked, even though it pained him to even suggest that. Chirrut made a surprised noise and drew his brows up. “You know, your Partisan friends? Their grenades would be a real help here.”

“I’m not friends with the Partisans,” Chirrut huffed, shaking his head. “We just shoot in the same direction, sometimes. Seriously,” he added after a heartbeat, with a lopsided smile, “can you picture me taking orders from someone like Saw Gerrera? It didn’t work even with the grandmasters, and I respected them.”

Baze grunted, relieved and irritated at the same time.

“Let’s go then,” he said, taking the last look around and following Chirrut towards the wall.

There was no exit from the wall tunnel directly into the garden, so they circled it and went out through a half-demolished watchtower. Baze was grateful for the darkness surrounding them – this way he couldn’t see the destruction of the Temple so clearly. He never thought he would see it again: the stumps of the buildings smudged with remains of blaster residue and blood, rubble heaping in places where guardians used to gather for prayer. The memories and the presence of death tugged at his insides, but with his eyes trained at Chirrut, crouching in front of him, it was easier to chase these thoughts away.

“They shovel the crystals into crates,” he whispered, straining his eyes to see. “And then load it onto the transports. There’s eight workers, about twenty troopers, and three officers.” Chirrut nodded, but didn’t move, listening intently to the metallic noises. “I can hit the one of the transports from there,” he suggested; with the recently rigged power cell his cannon would carry that far. He would be shielded from the regular blasters for some time. Not for long, though. It wouldn’t do to have Chirrut here when things would start to go nasty. “Now, I’d need you to cover me from the northern gate, and…”

“Baze.” Chirrut turned to him to fully convey his dismay for this idea, even though he didn’t have to. He was doing a pretty good job with his voice only. It was never an easy task to lie to Chirrut Îmwe. “Don’t even start.”

“You wanted to come here and stop them!”

“Yes, but I want to feel another sunrise on my face,” Chirrut hissed. “Since when are you – you know what, we’re not going to do this right now.”

“No,” Baze agreed, suddenly struck with an idea. “We’re going to shut down the oscillators.”

As much as it would help them in incapacitating the transports for a long time – at least until the Imperials found another power source strong enough – it was easier said than done. The building where the oscillators were located was more or less in the middle of the makeshift landing pad, but, like most of the Temple’s structures, it could be accessed through the cellars. The troopers probably didn’t know about it, because the entrances and the corridors were well-hidden, and required a code to enter. Even ordinary guardians weren’t supposed to know about them, but there was never anything ordinary about Chirrut. Baze only knew of them by association.

“It’s like I’m seventeen again,” Chirrut said after a moment, his frown morphing into a smile as he made his way down the watchtower. An entrance to the cellars would be somewhere in the floor and he always had a knack for finding them. “But with better body proportions.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Baze retorted, watching Chirrut scramble on the floor until he found the keypad with a triumphant _ha!_ He was right, actually, but Baze would never let a self-satisfied sentence like that slide in the past, and it was just easy to get back to their routines. Too easy, if Baze was being honest with himself.

“Look, it’s not my fault that you haven’t grown into your ears yet.” Chirrut’s voice echoed around the walls of the cellar corridor as Baze slipped into the complete darkness. “I know you’re making efforts, don’t think I didn’t notice the hair, but…”

“Chirrut, shut up.” Baze interrupted, disregarding Chirrut’s indignant huff. “They will hear you up there – oh fuck you and all your banthas!” he swore at the sudden flash of pain in his forehead.

“Now they surely won’t hear _that_ charming offer,” Chirrut muttered, and Baze could hear him shuffling closer despite the ringing in his head. He hit it with something, and hard – there was blood dribbling from his forehead over his eye. “Are you all right? Can you walk? Here, let’s do it like this” At Baze’s grunts of assent, Chirrut placed his hand on his own shoulder. “Just step after me, hunch down a little, and you’ll be fine.”

Baze did as he was told, ignoring the spinning in his head and the metallic taste on his tongue. He also ignored the rush of feelings which he wouldn’t name, surging in him at the sudden, familiar presence. Chirrut was right – it felt as if he’d been seventeen again, but nothing was better about him.

*

The good thing was that the oscillators weren’t in working condition anymore. The bad thing was that so was Chirrut’s back.

“Are they gone?”

Normally, if Baze could heard the troopers coming in their direction, Chirrut would already know how many there were and whether they were carrying anything outside of the standard weaponry set. The question wasn’t a good sign at all.

Baze took a deep breath, left their hiding spot, shot a series at the approaching troopers and tumbled under the nearby garbage bin. At the silence he peeked outside; all the troopers were lying on the ground, motionless.

“They are now,” he said, coming over to Chirrut and helping him up. “Come on, before someone follows.”

“That thing on your back,” Chirrut muttered, leaning heavily on Baze’s free shoulder, unoccupied by the still-warm repeater cannon. “It’s positively vicious.”

“Thank you.” Baze didn’t point out that this vicious thing saved their lives twice, first on the Temple grounds, and then now. Not to mention that he used it to destroy the oscillators. He had to focus on putting some distance between them and the Temple, and it wasn’t easy. He knew the layout of Jedha’s streets like the back of his hand, and yet he had no idea where to go.

The sun was rising slowly, and he could hear the familiar sounds of the Holy City waking up. Soon there would be more people on the street, who could be asked about a monk and a guy with a cannon by the searching parties. For a moment Baze considered just opening some random door and threatening his way inside – surely a household adorned with yellow ribbons would help him hide a Guardian of the Whills, if his cannon asked nicely enough.

“Wait,” Chirrut rasped suddenly, and sniffed a few times. He managed to walk all the time, but slower and slower with each passing minute. “Are we at the dyers’ quarter? Look for a wide durasteel door with a vertical lock and thick rubber gaskets,” he added, as Baze nodded.

Baze didn’t question the request, even though he very much wanted to know the sources of Chirrut’s intimate knowledge of doors in the dyers’ quarter. Even during Jedha’s prosperity – and maybe especially then – it wasn’t the most pleasant place to be. Baze remembered the chemical stench of dyes which clung to the fabric even after it was washed and dried; he was sent to pick up the supplies to the Temple a few times and each trip made him a little dizzy. But Chirrut was never sent here, even though he insisted he would know the right fabric by touch. For a brief moment Baze wondered if it was true.

“We’re here,” he said suddenly, steering Chirrut towards the wide durasteel door, just as described.

Chirrut dragged his palm up and down, checking the lock and the gaskets, and then knocked a few times with his fist, completely ignoring the blinking touchpad. There was a long silence, and Chirrut lifted his hand to thump at the door again, but suddenly it opened with a quiet sound, hitting them with a warm cloud of smelly steam.

At the other side stood the female Magrozz, the Lady of Mercy.

“May the Force of others be with you… Brother Chirrut…!” she hissed, reaching out to him with her sensory tentacles and stopping them just above Chirrut’s face. “You are hurt. Come inside,” she urged, withdrawing and letting them in. The door behind them sealed in an instant. The humidity and the various chemical smells in the air made it hard to breathe.

The Magrozz lead them to a wide seat and Chirrut sat down with a sigh of relief, quietly describing their situation. Hissing with understanding, she collected various vials and containers around the room, putting them in a large pocket on her smock-like garment. Then she got back to Chirrut and examined his back, her bluish tentacles moving like arms of a sea anemone.

While she completely ignored Baze, he watched her each movement closely, standing on the other side of Chirrut’s seat. It seemed almost impossible – the dyers’ quarter was one of the last places where he would look for her, and now he knew where she lived, because of Chirrut. And he should shoot her, take his proof as required, and leave Jedha immediately – but he couldn’t. Because of Chirrut.

“Girls!” called the Magrozz suddenly, scooting back a little. Her voice was surprisingly shrill when she wasn’t hissing. “Are you awake? I will need your help! Here, take this,” she added, turning to Baze, and handed him a wound patch in the familiar brownish red colour. “For your head, brother.”

“There’s no need,” he protested automatically, but the Magrozz made a low, placating sound and didn’t intend to listen. He took the patch but didn’t place it on his forehead; instead he looked at Chirrut, who sat with his head bowed and his brows knitted together, as if listening to something.

“May the Force of others be with you,” said a new voice and Baze looked up. There was Zaoyi standing at the door, hastily fastening ties of a wide apron. “How can I be of help… Brother Chirrut!”

“Exactly, my dear. You know more of human wounds that I do,” the Magrozz hissed, flailing her tentacles around Chirrut’s back. “I will need your help. Someone tried to patch him up previously, but take a look…”

Zaoyi hovered over Chirrut’s back, made a concerned noise and helped him shuck off the robe and shirt, exposing the inflamed patch of skin. It looked like there was an ugly infection spreading within the muscles. The Magrozz handed her an injector which she used immediately on Chirrut’s shoulder, muttering something about eight minutes of reaction time. Only then looked up at Baze. Her mighty frown made him think of Grandmaster T’Yo Sakka, who used to be in charge of the youngest novices in the Temple. It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant memory.

“Looks like you’re in trouble again, brother,” she said, grimacing. Then she took another patch from her apron pocket, opened it and glued to his forehead. “Do you just butt your head against all the obstacles in your way?”

“He does it quite frequently, I’m afraid,” Chirrut said, his voice stronger that it was just a moment ago.

“A nasty habit, that one,” Zaoyi said, and nudged Baze in the forearm. “Now move away, brother, and give us some space to work.”

“Yes, Baze, sit down and relax.” There was a smile on Chirrut’s face which made Baze’s stomach drop and his palms go ice-cold despite the warm, humid air. It was Chirrut’s battle smile, the one that meant _withdraw now, or I will end you_. And it was directed at him. “We’re all among friends here, aren’t we?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for being so wonderfully nice about this fic. Also, I'm sorry I kept you waiting for the update. I had to rewrite a solid chunk of it, which I almost never do, and the RL is keeping me super busy now. I hope to have the next chapter up within next two weeks though.

Despite Baze’s fears, the streets were relatively quiet when they left the Magrozz’ home. It looked like the Imperials ceased their pursuit, or at least directed it elsewhere; in fact the absence of the white helmets amongst the crowd was more than a little unsettling.

So was Chirrut’s silence. They walked back to Baze’s room side by side – Chirrut covered in an absurd coat and a headwrap, Baze with his cannon disassembled and tucked into a plain woven sack – and the silence clung to them like the smelly vapours from the Magrozz’ home. They didn’t talk when they reached the lodgings and took their belongings, clearing out of the rented room. They didn’t talk when Chirrut walked right into the maze of NiJedhan streets, weaving his way among the merchants and pickpockets, and rebels, and passers-by, with Baze close on his heels. They didn’t talk either when they arrived at some nondescript door in the northern part of the city, where Chirrut just asked for a room for a few days and the long-suffering Duros rented it out with no comment except for requesting half of the payment up front. Baze just followed with his cannon back again in his suitcase, waiting yet to be acknowledged.

But Chirrut clearly was in no rush. Once he familiarised himself with the layout of the room and contents of the cupboards, he poured some water from the filter and started to boil it on the tiny heater. Apparently there was a can of tea leaves forgot in one of the dark corners.

“What are your plans now?” Baze asked finally, watching Chirrut’s ministrations from his spot at the door. He could have sworn that one corner of Chirrut’s mouth twitched, as if he was suppressing a triumphant smile.

“Drink tea,” he replied slowly. “Go out and give blessings. What are yours?”

Instead of answering, Baze shrugged, knowing that the sound of his clothing scraping against the wall would be distinct enough to recognise without seeing. It was quite clear by now what his plans were, and there was no need to dwell on that.

“You are not going to kill her,” Chirrut said, as if he’d read Baze’s mind and acted out of pure spite. It was a statement, not a question. There wasn’t even a tinge of doubt in his voice. Baze envied him this certainty more than anything, even though Chirrut earned it like no one else.

“The Good Family is after her,” he said instead of a proper reply, hoping that it would be enough.

Chirrut sat down and drew his knees up to his chin. He was running his fingers against the edge of a tea cup, then against another one. It was rare to see him curled up like that. It brought back the memories of their time as the acolytes, when they would spend their nights sharing their doubts and fears. A sudden rush of longing for these times tugged at Baze painfully.

“Who?”

“The Good Family,” Baze repeated with a sigh. “You know, this huge crime syndicate ruling this part of Mid Rim, smuggling basically everything?” Chirrut nodded and started to trace his fingers against the edge of the steaming teapot. “If they want her dead, and I – they will just send someone else,” he finished after a pause. He didn’t add that this someone else would most probably go after him, too.

“The Force led me to her, you know,” Chirrut said after a moment, pouring the tea to one of the cups. “Rii-mah. I wanted to have my skirt re-dyed,” he continued, seemingly undisturbed by Baze’s pointed silence. “So I asked around about someone with good red dyes, and I was directed to her. Red dye is a new slang for sansanna-based drugs, apparently.” He took a sip and set the cup down, infuriatingly casual for the whole time. “So I went to the dyers’ quarter, straight to her door, you know? I didn’t need to search for her at all, even with all the noise and the smells there. We’ve been friends ever since. She brews some nasty variation of spice – or so I’m told – and sells plenty of it,” Chirrut continued, sipping his tea. “But the rest of the drugs, medicines I mean, she gives away. Even though it must be worth so much more, with the Imperial blockade on refined organic imports and all.” He paused and shook his head in deliberate contemplation. “I asked her about it once, and she said…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Baze cut in. Truly, it didn’t – if the Good Family wanted the Magrozz dead, they would finish her off sooner rather than later. Even if Baze didn’t go for the kill, it didn’t save the Magrozz either. “It’s a lost cause, now.”

“It isn’t unless you make it so. The Force delivers.”

“Fuck the Force,” Baze declared, with much more bitterness than anger. The Force wouldn’t save the Magrozz now – it wouldn’t save anyone.

“You are not going to kill her.”

It was the unswerving certainty in Chirrut’s tone which made Baze move. He closed the gap between them in two long strides and hovered over Chirrut. Normally he wouldn’t enjoy the fact that it made the other flinch, but now he did.

“Don’t,” he demanded in a low voice, watching Chirrut wince and tilt his head away. “Don’t act as if you have any idea what I am capable of. You told me yourself that Jedha is not a place for me anymore,” he added, more bitterly that he was entitled to, since he agreed with the point. “You should trust your instincts.”

“I do,” Chirrut said, but he didn’t seem convinced. “It looks like the future you built for yourself isn’t as grand as you imagined, though.”

So Chirrut remembered – of course, of- _kriffing_ -course Chirrut remembered the last time they spoke to each other, before. It’s not like Baze could just forget about it either. He had been blabbering about a future they would build together, a good one, in which they both would be not only alive, but living. If Chirrut had come with him then, maybe he would even have succeeded in that.

“It’s a bearable one,” he said instead. It probably came out harsher than he intended, even if it was true. Staying on Jedha would have killed him, probably – or driven him mad. Chirrut’s face came up at this, though; he was now listening closely, even though he was still sporting a pained frown.

“I wish it wasn’t so,” he said after a moment, though he didn’t clarify what he meant, and Baze didn’t want to dwell on that. It was an unusual sentiment for Chirrut, who would always claim that he had no regrets. But then, he would do so before Jedha fell.

“I told you that I didn’t want for us to meet like this.” Weak as it was, it was the best thing Baze could offer at the moment. As much as he wanted, he couldn’t promise Chirrut that he wouldn’t kill the Magrozz. Even if he could wiggle his way out of the arrangement with the Good Family, he wasn’t sure if Chirrut would accept any promises from him. He could only tell him the truth. “I – the last thing I wanted was to disturb you. I returned here only for the job.”

It earned him a silence, a long and uncomfortable one. He almost got back to his place at the door when Chirrut shook his head, as if he’d been startled from a nap.

“I wish it wasn’t so,” he repeated, but it sounded differently this time, like he really meant it. Like the regret was real. “I wish you returned here only to disturb me.”

“Why,” Baze breathed out after a few heartbeats, which he suddenly felt high up in his throat. He expected a lot of things – anything really, but not that. Chirrut’s anger when he left, and even more so when he returned, was completely justified. The forgiveness was not.

Chirrut studied him for a moment and then smiled with a smile which he rarely wore in front of anyone. Back in the good times Baze liked to think that it was meant only for him, and maybe it was.

“Because I missed you,” Chirrut said, and leaned over to pour the tea to the second cup.

*

It should have been easier for him, after Chirrut’s confession – he would imagine something like a balm for an aching wound – but in truth it wasn’t. All he could focus on now was Chirrut’s presence, just mere inches away. They spent the rest of the day in a nook of an alley facing the craters where the holy stones used to be: Chirrut sat down and started saying his prayers and blessings and Baze leaned against the wall, supposedly to watch the milling crowd for any signs of danger. He wouldn’t be able to name one thing he saw though, even if pressed.

What he could recite effortlessly though was the litany of his own shortcomings, as familiar as the Force mantras – the first and foremost of them being that he fell in love with a fellow Guardian and a friend. Baze remembered when the realisation had hit him, turning the confusion into the never-leaving guilt. It was not the Guardian’s way to attach themselves so that the other person felt like the very blood of their veins; it wasn’t a friend’s way to harbour lustful thoughts, developing into fantasies over time instead of vanishing. He remembered the endless hours of prayers, asking for respite – and later on, just for strength to keep it all away from Chirrut. The only thing he could do in the light of his own failure was to keep Chirrut unburdened and allow him to become a good Guardian, which Baze never could be.

And then one day Chirrut came to him with his head bowed and his sightless eyes fixed on the ground, and said that he decided to renounce his vows and leave the Temple. The fight they had back then…

“Guardian!” someone yelled just in front of him and Baze startled, automatically reaching for his blaster. The crowd around them thinned, people all but running away. “Guardian, you need to leave,” insisted a young man with a wide scar on his face. “Now!”

“What’s happening?” Baze asked, leaving the blaster be. The man jumped looked up at him with eyes wide from terror.

“The troopers, they take folks off the streets,” he blurted out. “They just comb the city with the heavy transports and – and kidnap people if they see a crowd, or just pull people from their houses. You need to go,” he repeated urgently, looking around. There was barely anyone in the street now.

“Let them come,” Chirrut said and his face glowed with the battle smile again. “I fear nothing, for all is as the Force wills it.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Suddenly the man’s tone changed; he wasn’t concerned and scared anymore, he was angry. “You need to get out of sight, they’ll have a fit if they see a Guardian. They shoot the people dead if anyone resists, straight in the head! They killed twenty folks at the Copper Gate, and some more near the Jerengjen square. These mad fuckers of Gerrera destroyed their landing pad and that’s the retribution,” he added bitterly and spat at the ground. “We don’t need any more heroic bastards here anytime soon.”

They should reply something: correct the man, assume the responsibility, ask for forgiveness. Anything. Baze couldn’t find his voice though, and Chirrut – Chirrut went completely still, as if he stopped breathing.

“Thank you for your warning,” Baze said quietly, when the silence stretched a little too much. For the first time in what felt like forever he saw Chirrut speechless; he looked like a sandstone figure crumbling rapidly in front of his eyes. Baze placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll go.”

“You’d better,” muttered the man, leaving quickly with some curses muttered under his breath.

“Come on,” Baze muttered, squeezing Chirrut’s shoulder and urging him up. He wasn’t successful though. “Chirrut. We need to go.”

Chirrut took in a long, shuddery breath and stood up, grasping his staff tightly. They rushed towards their new lodgings, mingling into the panicked crowds as they entered the main road. People were running and shoving their way, shouting about stormtroopers approaching from every direction. Suddenly two Gamorreans all but charged at them, almost toppling Chirrut as they run by. Chirrut didn’t duck away, which was unusual in its own right. Baze threw a few loud curses at them, but they were drowned in the increasing noise.

It got better once they stumbled into the room, if only because the noise abated to a low but constant hum. Baze kept his eyes – and his thoughts – carefully trained on Chirrut. He could already feel the anger, fear, and pain rippling through the Force and he had to keep these feelings at bay if he was to stay conscious.

“I need to fix this,” Chirrut said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the buildings behind the tiny window. Baze opened his mouth, protests and pleads tumbling in his head, but then Chirrut moved, as if he’d woken up from a dream. “I need to fix this,” he repeated, clawing at the comm unit at his belt. He unclasped it and placed on the tiny table, his fingers too shaky to open the lid.

It was so unlike him that it made Baze startle. Any words of comfort he wanted to offer died on his tongue as he watched Chirrut fight with the metal casing. Chirrut was never one for consolation anyway; he always preferred to laugh the pain off, even if the jokes were forced at best. Baze heaved a sigh and went over to the table. He could force a joke or two if the times called for it. Never let it be said that he didn’t make sacrifices in the name of the wellbeing of the fool he loved.

“Desperate, aren’t you?” he said as lightly as he could, hovering over Chirrut and brushing against his shoulder, and old habit of theirs. This time it earned him a full body shudder, but he forced himself to ignore it. “Waiting for a call from your sweetheart?”

It was a word used by the older Guardians and the masters, cute and trivial. It was not a bad thing to have a sweetheart, but it was meant to be fleeting. Baze never thought about one, never wanted one for himself.

“Fear not,” he added, moving Chirrut’s fingers away and prying the lid open. The wires inside looked like a serpents’ nest and smelled on molten plastic, no doubt Chirrut’s handiwork. “If they like you, they’ll wait.”

Baze expected a quip back – something about prying in other people’s business. In the Temple days Chirrut would never let go of the topic, relishing in how it made everyone uncomfortable but never truly hurt. But Chirrut laughed instead. It was an awful sound, bitter and full of disbelief.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Baze said, before he could stop himself. The question felt like a shot in the gut, but then, he deserved it. “Yes, I would.”

Chirrut huffed a shallow breath, as if he was surprised by Baze’s words, and then he squared his shoulders. He looked ready to continue, but Baze didn’t give him a chance.

“Let me fix this,” he said, pulling the comm from Chirrut’s hands, and then he braved on. “The wiring looks like it was done by a blind man with no brains.”

“Oh no,” Chirrut replied in monotone, and the tension in his shoulder relaxed visibly. “Do you think that’s why it glitches almost every day?”

“That, and the power cell doesn’t quite fit…” He reached to one of his pockets and took out the multi-purpose tool which he scavenged from one of his kills. It was a heavy thing with a few blades and screwdrivers, and even a tiny soldering iron, and it served him well. “It’s too big for this motherboard, the whole thing would just melt.”

“I wonder how I could overlook this,” Chirrut said and there was a hint of smile on his face. Relief spread warmly in Baze’s chest. “But I have spares somewhere, I’ll get you a new one.”

“What a brilliant idea, let the blind man fetch the spare parts,” Baze grumbled, not even trying to hide his own smile. It was against everything he’d been taught – everything he’d once believed in – to find joy in a connection with another human while a war raged just behind the walls. But he couldn’t help it, and for a moment he didn’t feel like he had to. He was not a Guardian anymore. “What’s up with the speaker?” he asked, shaking these thoughts away and focusing on the wires and chips in front of him. “It’s weird, and there’s no identity circuit…” There were other circuits instead, similar to old radio transmitters. They’re foreign to him, but Baze knew the general principles and could work it out it time.

“That’s because it’s not a comm unit.” With a loud clank Chirrut put down the metal box with spare parts – power cells and odd chips mostly. “It’s an echolocation transmitter.”

“Echo-box?” Baze repeated incredulously. “Whatever for?”

He’d forgot the intensity of Chirrut’s stare, always achingly accurate, even though he couldn’t actually see. Baze ducked his head and cleared his throat; no one else could ever chastise him like that.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, but didn’t continue. _I’m sorry I left you to re-learn the city on your own. I’m sorry that I left you to master using and fixing an echo-box, all alone._

“I know you are,” Chirrut said, his voice surprisingly kind.

Baze didn’t reply anything at that. Bowing his head, he focused on the wires and chips, on the foreign-but-not-quite-so patterns on the echo-box circuits. They required some serious tinkering – it was obvious that a blind man with only some distant memory of how the electronic devices worked had been tampering with them. But Baze could fix this, he knew he could.

It was almost done – he finally understood the pattern and found the right power cell – when something broke his focus. Chirrut was still whispering his mantra and the sun was still setting, but he suddenly felt scared. The sense of danger crashed over him like a wave and left him breathless and shivering. And just like a wave, it was about to return and hit him again and again.

“What’s happening?” Chirrut reached out and grabbed his arm, grounding him. “Please, tell me.”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Baze managed, but when he said it out loud he realised it wasn’t true. Willing his legs to stop shaking, he got up and went over to the window, forcing it open. There were no stormtroopers on the streets and no terrified crowds, and he almost leaned back to the room, but something told him to look up. And then he saw it.

He must have done something – cry out or swear, or gasp in terror – because the next thing he registered were Chirrut hands on his shoulders, dragging him away from the window. He let himself be manoeuvred back to the seat by the table. Chirrut didn’t let go of him though, hovering close.

“Tell me what you saw,” he asked in a small, strained voice. Baze nodded, took in a shuddery breath and forced himself to speak.

“The Star Destroyer – it’s coming down on the city.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, you wonderful folks. Thank you for staying with me for the whole time. I couldn't write it without you guys - your response has been terrific. I hope you can accept this story as a small "thank you" for being such a wonderful fandom. All the warm and fuzzy things in this story are dedicated to you.
> 
> Huge thanks go also to **manarai** , who discussed the story with me, beta-read it, and suffered my constant babbling even though she isn't a part of the Rogue One fandom. The Star Destroyer is dedicated to her.
> 
> There is talk of casualties of the Star Destroyer (meaning: dead bodies). I think it's still canon-level, especially if we think of Rogue One, but still, please be warned.
> 
> An emotional author's note is also at the end.

It couldn’t be happening. It never happened in the Empire’s history, ever. And yet.

The descent of the Star Destroyer was the single most terrifying thing that Baze saw in his life. He wouldn’t be able to tell how much time it lasted. He knew that Chirrut dragged him out to the street, among the panicked people, in a vain attempt to do something, anything. But the sight of the Star Destroyer filling the sky, blocking the sun and the faint outline of the planet above them, made him freeze in terror.

“Baze,” Chirrut pleaded, pulling at his arm. He must have picked up the dread welling up in Baze and in the crowd alike, but he couldn’t see the shadow of the Star Destroyer, the enormous mass ready to crush them all. “Baze, we need to – we need to do something!”

“It’s going to land on the city,” Baze replied, eyes fixed up on the ship. It was true, he realised as he said it out loud, so he yelled it again, turning to look at Chirrut. “It’s going to land on the city!”

There was no chance in hell that it wouldn’t – it was hovering too close, as if it was meant to crush the Holy City under its keel. It wasn’t possible: the Empire committed a lot of atrocities, but no one ever heard about a Star Destroyer landing. With their mass and size, it was thought to be impossible.

Baze started at numbly at the approaching ship. A part of his brain, the one that wasn’t paralyzed with fear, wondered if the Star Destroyer was going to break the moon in half, if it was going to fit the curvature at all. The whole scene was surreal, as if taken out of a nightmare, and while he knew that it was actually happening, he forced himself to look away and focus on Chirrut, pressing close to him. Trying as best as he could, he shut out the horror encroaching him and thought about Chirrut’s whitened face, and his hands clasped closely around his staff. After a moment the descent of the Destroyer started to feel distant, like a holovid watched from afar. He still wondered if the whole city was going to be crushed, and if not, which part of it, but these thoughts flowed through his head almost independently of his consciousness.

Chirrut was shouting something at him, but there was the noise of the crowd and the increasing low hum of the approaching ship made it impossible to understand. The sound was becoming unbearable, getting louder and louder, like it was meant to make their heads explode. But the great mass of metal, filing up the sky above their heads and blocking the daylight, was even scarier.

They didn’t move out of the street until the Star Destroyer broke into the atmosphere. Baze didn’t believe it would really happen, he’s never heard of a Star Destroyer _landing_ anywhere, but this one was going to. The sudden wind whipped right into their faces, raising sand and dirt, and pieces of garbage. The street under their feet started shaking, and even in the noise Baze could make out the crackling sounds of distant buildings crashing and falling into pieces.

Chirrut started to claw at his arm, yanking at it desperately, and this time Baze moved. He might as well stay here until the Star Destroyer crashed him to dust, but Chirrut wouldn’t find a way out in this noise and chaos. They made it to the nearest building, crawled into a basement and curled against the wall, clinging to each other. Baze couldn’t see Chirrut or hear him say anything, but he knew that Chirrut was repeating his mantra, again and again. There was a comfort in that.

It seemed to last a lifetime, the earth shaking and the roar of the ship growing with each passing second. The walls of the basement trembled and fine dust and stones started to fall on their heads and shoulders. Baze knew that it was happening, but it felt as if it happened to someone else. He felt Chirrut’s hands clasped in his own, cold and trembling.

And then Jedha broke in half – it must have. The tremor that shook the ground made them topple and hit the floor. The ceiling above their heads cracked and a piece of concrete hit the floor just mere inches away from Baze’s legs. The roar of the machinery continued and the ground vibrated, but apart from that, everything went still. Deadly so.

“Baze. Baze!” Chirrut’s voice came over the noise and the ringing in his ears. He freed his hands from Baze’s grasp and run them against Baze’s face, quickly and clumsily. “Talk to me, please.”

“I – they’re dead,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Despite all the roaring of the ground and the Star Destroyer, the stillness and silence transmitted through the Force was piercing his brain. “They’re dead. Dying. Force,” he gasped, suddenly nauseous and short of breath. His heart was thumping painfully in his throat.

Chirrut curled up against him and pressed one hand to his clammy forehead. Baze grabbed the other one tightly, so that he couldn’t feel the trembling of his own fingers.

“It’s all right,” Chirrut said, his voice barely above the noise. “You’re all right, you’re here and I am with you. I am with you,” he repeated, scooting closer and leaning heavily against Baze’s shoulder. Baze forced himself to focus on that, and on the reassurances repeated under Chirrut’s breath like another mantra, and slowly, slowly the stillness of death ringing in his head began to recede.

“We should go,” Baze managed, shifting in place. All his muscles were sore. “We should – go. See what happened. If there’s anything we can do.”

“They’re taking the kyber away.” Despite Baze’s shuffling, Chirrut didn’t move even by an inch.

“What?”

“They’re taking the kyber away,” Chirrut repeated, his voice even and empty. “The Star Destroyer must have come for it.”

Baze opened his mouth to protest it, but he stopped himself. It might have sounded absurd and unrealistic, but an actual Star Destroyer did just raze the Holy City. There was no denying that. Instead of arguing, he clambered up with a wince and pulled Chirrut with him.

There were no words between them for a long while after they crawled out of the basement, hands still clasped tightly. Somewhere around them other people were looking out of their shelters as well, pressed closely to the cracked walls and looking up to the monstrosity above them.

“It towers over the whole city,” Baze said when he felt that Chirrut was about to ask. “The main spire of the Temple barely reaches the bottom of the nose. The south-western part of the wall is crushed, and the buildings…” he trailed off, pushing the thoughts away. It was not only the Temple wall with the western gate that was destroyed. The Jerengjen square with its fountain, the Salt Market, the whole quarters of weavers and dyers, his favourite caf place in the whole city – all gone, too. “It’s terrifying,” he added quietly. Even if Chirrut was right and the Star Destroyer was taking the kyber away, it didn’t come here to collect the crystals. It came to sow fear and, loathe as Baze was to admit it, it succeeded.

“I don’t see what’s so scary about that,” Chirrut said suddenly. His voice was shaky and a little breathless; his grip on Baze’s shoulder was growing painful. “We should feel proud – I mean, this thing destroyed our city, and it’s a _Star_ Destroyer…”

“Chirrut,” he tried to interrupt, but it wouldn’t work.

“…it means our moon turned into a real star, didn’t it?”

If this happened all these years ago, before he left, Baze would mutter something about Chirrut acting like a fool. He’d put a heavy hand on his shoulder, gesture both reassuring and distancing. He’d keep his feelings at bay and tell himself it was for Chirrut’s sake, like the lying coward he was. But if there ever was a moment when Chirrut needed Baze’s courage, it was now.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said as he pulled Chirrut into a close embrace. He felt a gasp of shock against his neck. Chirrut wasn’t fighting his hold, but his shoulders were squared up and tense, and he kept his staff between them, like a barrier. “You don’t need to downplay it for me,” Baze added, barely over the noise of the Star Destroyer. “You don’t need to–”

“I do,” Chirrut interrupted, and Baze felt his words more than he heard them. “This – all this – it’s on me. All these people. I – the kyber – I just wanted to–”

“I know.” Baze didn’t need the explanation, he’d swore the same oaths. Kyber was the sacred vessel of the Force, and they were supposed to protect it with their lives, if need be. The lives of hundreds of other people were another matter though. “But we did it together, remember? I was there, all the way.”

His own words hit him as he spoke them aloud. All this – the crumbled city, the lost lives – it was on him, too. This thought made his breath quicken with fear and the all-familiar guilt. But if it meant lifting some burden off of Chirrut’s shoulders, he would bear it as best as he could.

“Yes,” Chirrut said after a pause, his shoulder relaxing. “Yes, you were.” And with that he reached out and hugged Baze back, tightly, as if his life depended on it.

*

They run to the basement again as soon as the roar and the trembling of the floor increased, but a wave of scorching air from the gigantic repulsors hit their backs before they managed to hide. The take-off of the Star Destroyer was worse than its descent in some way; now Baze was sure that they would survive, and they would have to go on. He let the emptiness of the death and the dark spikes of fear touch him through the Force, but the presence of Chirrut at his shoulder helped to keep this at bay.

It was tougher when they left their shelter for good this time and went to the ruins. It felt like walking on a wound. Baze tried to describe it to Chirrut until his voice failed. After that they just worked together in silence, pushing away the rubble, letting out the survivors, and pulling the bodies on the streets. Other people joined them, but it didn’t make the streets feel any less dead.

The farther they got, the less work was there to be done; the south-western part of the Holy City was crushed to bloody dust. The once-cluttered skyline was now almost perfectly even, with the Ta’Natha Mountains visible far on the horizon. Baze tried not to look at them; he tried not to look at the bodies, either. He could swear that one of them was slug-like, blue and slimy, just like the Lady of Mercy, but he pushed this thought away. It took much more effort after that to not focus on the bodies, to stop searching for the old Aqualish caf seller, or Zaoyi who called him brother, or the Force-forsaken Partisans he’d fought along. He whispered the prayer for a safe passage into the afterlife, one he didn’t say since the Temple fell, and he carried on.

They stopped only after the nightfall, when the wind became too strong to continue working, even though their muscles burned with exertion. There wasn’t anything resembling a shelter in sight, so they just crouched against a fragment of a wall, standing out in the rubble like a tombstone.

“I thought you would be praying,” Baze said, once they were as shielded from the wind as possible. They were both bone-tired – he could feel Chirrut’s muscles tremble from exhaustion as much as his own did – but neither of them felt like sleeping.

“I thought you did.” Chirrut sighed and found Baze’s hand. He run his fingers against the bloody knuckles and torn fingertips.

“It doesn’t count. I’m not a Guardian anymore,” Baze said. Chirrut’s touch didn’t alleviate the pain, not really, but then it did, in a way.

“And do you think I am?” Chirrut scoffed, waving a hand at the destruction in front of him. “I’m doing a great job out there then, aren’t I.”

Baze opened his mouth to protest at the bitterness in Chirrut’s voice, but he checked himself. There wasn’t much to argue with: whatever their intentions were, the Star Destroyer came because of them. He never heard about another moon or planet to sustain a wound like Jedha did today. He doubted that anyone ever would.

“You stayed,” he said instead. “And you wouldn’t leave, even when everyone – when I left. It has to count for something.”

“I almost did though,” Chirrut said defiantly. Baze recognised the stubbornness and it made him tense. Star Destroyers may land and moons may be broken in half, but Chirrut would not be swayed from his topic, despite Baze’s unhappy grunts. “I thought you’d remember, the fight we had back then was epic, to say the least.”

Baze did remember – after all these years he could recall the tremble in Chirrut’s voice when he’d said he was going to renounce his vows, the slump of his shoulders, the nervous movements of his fingers against his staff. He remembered his own disbelief, then guilt, and anger which he should have direct at himself, but had vented at Chirrut instead. He’d promised himself to keep Chirrut free of the burden of his – his affections, and yet he’d failed and Chirrut had decided to leave.

“I never meant to hurt you, to – to drive you away,” he admitted, seven years too late. “I just wanted–”

“I know,” Chirrut interrupted with a resigned huff. “To love me from afar, and torture yourself in the process. I was so angry when I realised this, you know,” he continued conversationally to Baze’s stunned silence. “That you never planned on telling me, because you decided, all by yourself, that me passing the seventh duan was somehow more important. Oh, I was so livid, I was thinking about beating some sense into your head each time I saw you.”

“And you did,” Baze muttered, thinking back to the shock of the punch. Chirrut shook his head and continued, still in the same light tone.

“But then I thought that maybe it was more important for you, the Guardianship, and I wanted you to have it. After all, you were Baze Malbus, the most devoted Guardian of the Order of the Whills. You didn’t need distractions,” he added with a shrug.

“You’re telling me that you wanted to leave the Temple so I could pass my seventh duan?” Baze asked. It was the least shocking part of Chirrut’s tirade; the rest of it was only slowly catching up with him, filling in the blanks.

“Didn’t help you much in the end, I’m afraid. But still, you’re welcome.”

“It wasn’t that,” Baze said finally, even though his thoughts were still scattered like a flock of wild giavu birds. “You were – are – such a radiant being in the Force, and I never wanted to… To taint that with how – how I couldn’t decide. How weak I was. I still am. I never thought you would want…” he trailed away, making a helpless gesture at himself with his free hand.

“Yeah, I realised that, too. Years later though.” Chirrut made a face, then raised their linked hands and placed a small, dry kiss at Baze’s wrist, at the tip of the mynock-shaped scar. Baze’s breath caught in his throat and his heart stuttered, like in all the ridiculous love stories he never believed in, but wanted to happen to him anyway. “You are not going to ask even now, are you?”

“It’s not like I suddenly became a better man out there.”

“Good,” Chirrut said, his breath ghosting over Baze’s ruined knuckles. “Neither did I.”

*

“It feels wrong,” Baze said much later, when the horizon was already greying. The massive silhouette of the Star Destroyer hovered just above it, much closer to the surface than it had any right to be. For a moment Baze wondered idly if it was going to hang so low forever, a warning to all would-be rebels in the Holy City.

“Wrong?” Chirrut scoffed and twisted in his embrace, but didn’t make any real attempts to free himself.

“Undeserved,” Baze amended, but it still wasn’t the word he was looking for. “Out of place. The Temple has fallen, the city did too, and yet I get to be here and hold you like this.”

It was more than that. In the silence of all the lost lives, clawing at him through the Force, Chirrut felt like the one thing that could keep him sane. For a moment he wanted to tell Chirrut as much, but it seemed too great a burden.

“Maybe we were meant for the times of war,” Chirrut said, and reached out to touch Baze’s brow, the corner of his eye, the scar under it, the corner of his mouth. He’d kissed all these places earlier and a part of Baze’s mind still marvelled at that.

It was cryptic and sketchy, as far as explanations went, but today Baze let it slide. If Chirrut was content, then he could at least try and be content too. With Chirrut’s hands exploring his face in small, gentle touches, it didn’t even seem that difficult.

“Are you going to stay?” Chirrut asked suddenly, fingers resting at Baze’s forehead and eyelids. Baze inhaled sharply, but before he could say anything, Chirrut clarified: “Will you be able to?”

“Yes,” Baze said without even a moment of hesitation. It wasn’t due to an emotional rush – it was, he realised with a shiver down his spine, a guiding vision provided by the Force, one he would endlessly pray for during his Temple years. In a moment of rare clarity he understood that there was no future in which he would not be come back here, to Chirrut, in one way or another. Not because the Force said so, but because he’d choose it, any time, over anything else. He might as well accept it and stay.

Chirrut smiled at him with his private smile, the one that only Baze ever got to see.

“Then I fear nothing,” he said, and for all the mock-seriousness in his tone, it sounded true. “For all is as the Force wills it.”

Baze smiled back and once, just this once, he didn’t protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's all, folks. Thank you for reading the story, especially for those of you who stayed with it from the first chapter. It's actually my first multichapter fic that I managed to finish, and it is all thanks to you guys. I never expected such wonderful support - I've never received so many comments or kudos, so many signs that someone is out there reading it. Thank you, truly, for this great fandom experience.
> 
> If, for whatever reason, you want to yell at me, you can find me at [Tumblr](little-miss-carrot.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really shouldn't be doing this right now. RL is calling. So please bear with me, guys, and keep your fingers crossed.


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